


Richie Tozier Takes A Ride In Style

by DarkShadows_EvilMind



Category: IT (1990), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 2019 Richie Tozier, 90s Eddie Kaspbrak, AU - IT Multiverse Crossover, Bisexual Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak Deserves Nice Things, Fluff, Gay Richie Tozier, Light Angst, Limo Driver Eddie, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentioned Maturin | The Turtle, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon Fix-It, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Romantic Comedy, The Turtle CAN Help Us (IT), Time Travel - sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24149539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadows_EvilMind/pseuds/DarkShadows_EvilMind
Summary: Ever since his car accident, Eddie Kaspbrak has been feeling a little...off. The medicines in his cabinets don't look quite right, the streets he should know like the back of his hand seem strange, and the oblong device in his pocket is called aCell Phoneand he doesn't exactly know why he knows that. Maybe it has to do with his accident-induced fever dream of a massive, talking turtle. He's promised love, deep and authentic love, but doesn't exactly see how that's possible for a guy like him. No, Eddie's positive he'll die alone.Richie Tozier has a codeine-fueled dream where a less than majestic turtle tells him it wants to help and will do all it can to heal what ails him—so long as he keeps an open mind. He takes these words to heart and starts to say yes to anything and everything, from coffee he doesn't want to expensive cologne. He even lets Steve talk him into taking a luxury car service to his New York appearances instead of Ubering like a rookie. Nothing seems that different until he gets in the back of a limousine driven by a timid, doe-eyed blond man who introduces himself as Edward Kaspbrak. Oh, this is getting WEIRD.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 33
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 90s Eddie needs more love, because he is baby. And adorable. I don't know if this has been done before, it but it probably has. I still want to try my hand at it regardless. I hope you enjoy!

Ever since the accident, Eddie Kaspbrak had been feeling kind of...fuzzy. He’d been making his way to Manhattan from Brooklyn in his brand new ‘91 Cadillac, shaking his head at all the construction and traffic. He was ahead of schedule. He was _always_ ahead of schedule, but somehow he’d still felt late. He’d had this impending sense of dread and doom.

A premonition, his mother called it. 

He’d checked his watch at least a dozen times, trusting it more than the display on the dashboard. 

The Cadillac hadn’t even been moving. He _knew_ it wasn’t moving just as he _knew_ it was a brand new ‘91 Cadillac, just as he knew he’d been on his way to Manhattan to pick up Bill Murray from his hotel.

The doctors and his mother all insisted that these were injury-induced lapses in memory. He had had a bad dream, they told him. He had been so traumatized from the crash and the pileup in the Lincoln Tunnel that he repressed it all together. 

“Oh, you must’ve been so scared, Eddie! You must’ve been scared to death stuck down there in the dark! All those fumes from all those _cars!_ Oh, your poor lungs! It wreaked havoc on your asthma! It’s no wonder you blocked it all out!” His mother had cried.

But he _hadn’t been in the Lincoln Tunnel!_ He had no business there—and made sure he never did. _Because_ of his asthma, _because_ he didn’t like to feel trapped there in the dark. Also, who in their right mind would even _try_ to take the Lincoln Tunnel at rush hour? He knew better than that.

“I told you,” he’d insisted. “I told you again and again. I _wasn’t_ in the tunnel! I was in Brooklyn! You’re mistaking me for someone else! I was on my way to Manhattan, not New Jersey! I was picking up Bill Murray.”

This just led to more pitying looks and tongue-clicking from his mother who tutted over him and kissed his head like he was still a little boy—making all the hospital workers uncomfortable. 

Eddie let it drop then and hadn’t brought it up since except to ask Joey to pull his driver report from the day of the supposed accident. He expected a sheet of paper with the details but...it was hard to explain, but it felt right, too, when Joey nodded and pulled a beeper out of his pocket—a really large one—and pressed a few buttons. 

_Cell phone,_ Eddie had thought to himself as he felt his pocket buzz. He didn’t even remember putting it in there when he got dressed that morning. Didn’t remember grabbing it alongside his keys and travel bag of medicine. _He emailed it to my Cell Phone._

According to the email, he’d been on his way back from New Jersey after dropping off a model named Illya Yanez at her drug dealer boyfriend’s house. Why in the world would he ever agree to drive someone to such a sketchy place? It just didn’t make sense.

The medicine bottles in his cabinet look different. His home looked different. The clothes in his closet seemed...different somehow. He remembered being in a _brand new_ 1991 Cadillac. Why did the driver’s report and the insurance claim both list a _2016 Lincoln Continental Stretch?_

Ever since the crash, besides the clear psychological damage that had been done—possibly even the brain damage that had been done—Eddie’s chest had been hurting. He’d been X-Rayed and everything with no abnormalities, no broken bones, nothing strange on the EKG. He’d gone to four doctors in a two week span trying to find a reason for the pain, the deep and constant ache in his bones that reminded him of his broken arm when he’d been a boy. Everyone told him there was nothing wrong—and then prescribed him some tranquilizers to help him rest. 

What a waste that was. It said right on the bottle you couldn’t drive for ten hours after taking them, and Eddie’s schedule seldom left him with eight hours let alone ten between shifts. 

New York just seemed so different to him now. As if, somehow, it had become noisier, busier… He mentioned all the traffic to Joey who merely shrugged and said, “It is what it is, Eddie.” It felt wrong, and yet his brain held this static that told him to just nod along.

_It is what it is. New York has always been this busy since the dawn of time. The cars have always been this sharp and sleek. Ladies have always worn skirts so short and tops so low. Men have always had little computer screens on their wrists and small computers mislabeled as phones in their pockets. How could you forget such a thing?_

Maybe he’d just gone crazy… Or maybe the doctors and his mother were right. Maybe he’d been so scared he mixed up a movie and his real life or something to block out the frightening accident. Whenever he started to feel too panicked, that static would come rushing in…

That deep, slow voice telling him it was okay. That all was as it should be. He was where he was meant to be and on the course he was destined to take.

Eddie didn’t know much about destiny or if he bought into the idea at all, but the voice was impossible to ignore and it _did_ bring him comfort.

Comfort he had come to realize, almost as suddenly as he realized that wrist watches had _always_ tracked your pulse and your sleep and your activity level, in his life had been lacking. Very much so. So much so, in fact, that he was unmistakably, devastatingly lonely. He felt it so deeply, this bleeding wound in his chest just beneath his aching bones—a loneliness he couldn’t shake. He would sit longer hours with his mother whose presence had always been so overbearing and yet so comforting, too, and felt even lonelier than he had up in his room. He surprised Joey by going out for drinks with him and a couple of the other drivers, and sat there awkwardly and sadly at the bar with a virgin daiquiri. 

A lady came up to him, he remembered, and had complimented his suit jacket and then his tie. He was too shy to talk to her. He was so flustered by her uncalled for attention that he ended up making a real fool of himself and spilling his drink all over the bar because he turned in his seat too fast and caught the glass with his wrist. The lady lost interest in him then and the guys he had come with averted their eyes and pretended not to see. 

He was going to die alone. That’s just what it was. He felt it in his aching chest and every muscle and nerve in his body. He would die alone, despite the dream he’d had.

Despite the dream he’d had while unconscious in the hospital—the dream in which he’d first heard that slow, measured voice. 

It promised him love and in turn gave him paranoia and suffocation. The static didn’t come to overwhelm this thought… It left him alone to dwell on it. To stew in it…

Eddie Kaspbrak was trapped in a bustling, noisy, overcrowded city—and he was completely alone.

The turtle couldn’t help him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this faster than I thought I would have time to. Uh... Whoops? Enjoy!

Richie’s face felt as if he’d snorted wet concrete and then slammed head-first into a brick wall. There was so much pressure building behind his eyes that his vision was bleary and he could only breathe through his mouth which was making his throat burn like a motherfucker. He’d just finished his last show in Las Vegas and had scheduled extra time in the city between his two show dates there so he could get fucked up and gamble in the ritzy casinos. 

Now, instead of living his best life, he was spending his last night in Vegas chugging cough syrup that Steve had given him at the venue on top of the liquor he’d knocked back at the after party. He was dizzy and exhausted and reeked to high heavens of sweat and booze. Or he supposed he did. He couldn’t smell for shit. He couldn’t _taste_ for shit. For all he knew, this cough syrup could very well have been purple Kool-Aid.

He drank more of it than he probably should have before stripping off his suit jacket and throwing it on the chair next to the window of his hotel room. He shoved aside the curtains and stared out at all the bright lights, mourning the fact that he couldn’t be down on the street below enjoying them up close. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket with an incoming text from Steve that swam in front of his eyes. Something, something, take your meds, something, something, go to bed. Richie sent back a thumbs up emoji and then checked his other notifications. He had a text from Mike showing off the new cabinets he’d put up in the house he’d bought (which also got a thumbs up emoji and a brief “lookin good!” in reply), and another from Beverly asking how he was feeling. He’d told her that morning he woke up feeling like straight up shit and she’d been mothering him every minute since.

Did he drink enough water? How about tea with honey instead of coffee? No, honey whiskey does not count as honey… No, honey whiskey in a Long Island Iced Tea is not the same, either.

He told Beverly he was feeling even worse but not to worry because he was going to flush it out with codeine and a hot shower. Richie could practically hear her telling him to “be safe” as he stripped off the rest of his clothes and wobbled into the large, bright bathroom with its authentic marble counter tops. Despite going MIA for a couple weeks last year and canceling a few more dates than he really should’ve, his career was still booming along like a freight train. 

The drop off was coming, he reminded himself. The drop off would come and he’d fall into the black, dark pit of obscurity and get swallowed up. Maybe then, he told himself—maybe then he could just go home and huddle up and come to terms with what happened in Derry.

What happened to him and to Eddie, left down there in the dark. Memories he wished he could repress once more just screamed louder and louder every day. He couldn’t deny who he was anymore, and part of him felt like who he was had died down there in the cistern with Eddie Kaspbrak. 

In the meantime though, he was going to take a nice steamy shower with this _luxurious_ shower head and pray to the powers that be that it Dranoed the fuck out of his sinuses with steam. He turned the water up as hot as he could stand and then stepped into the glass stall, sighing as the warm water rained down on him...until he realized he’d forgotten to take off his glasses and now they were fogged up to the point he could no longer see with or without them. 

He took them off, stumbled blindly and slipped around on the wet floor, and set them on the counter, then scurried back under the warm rush of water while his heart pounded in overdrive from the exertion of hurrying two feet across the bathroom. 

Back in the safety of the shower, Richie realized he’d forgotten to bring in a wash cloth.

Cue another naked, wet, cold hustle across the room to the counter and back—only this time, he felt dizzy as fuck as he stood under the burning hot stream. 

He tried turning down the temperature a little, but it seemed too little, too late. No matter how many deep breaths he took, his vision swirled—and then started fading in and out. 

The next thing he knew, he was on his back staring up at the cosmos. He was neither cold nor warm...clothed nor naked, because—as he’d come to realize—he just _was._ He was a presence, not a body. Just a soul.

“Well, shit,” he said to himself, taking in three hundred and sixty degrees of darkness and stars and universes. He was able to see clearly for probably the first time in his whole existence, and his head cold was gone. Probably because he no longer had a head. “I feel bad for Consuela when she comes to mop up my suite. Over here we’ve got some crusty socks, and in there—oh, goody!—a wet, naked celebrity corpse! Ah, shit...” 

That wasn’t how he’d wanted to go. What was Beverly going to think now? That all her motherly advice had been for naught and he went and blacked out and died in the shower when he should’ve just drank herbal tea.

Fuck, how were they going to tell his mom? Hopefully Steve could pull some strings and maybe make the report say he’d died in his underwear at least.

_Be Calm. Your Visit Here Is But Temporary._

The words were _loud._ If Richie had ears, the voice would be deafening. If you could call it a voice. It kind of, like himself, just _was._

“Where is ‘here’ exactly?” Richie asked, seeing a small speck of something coming toward him—growing larger and larger and larger yet. A massive creature, an entity like nothing he’d ever seen or could have even imagined—even on his best (and worst) acid trips in the mid-90s. 

_Here Is Eternal. Here Is… Always._

“Always,” Richie repeated, trying to do an impression of Severus Snape, only to realize he couldn’t. 

_You Have Been Seeking Something. Something Far Out Of Reach. Something Unobtainable._

It was a giant motherfucking turtle. It’s head was probably bigger than the entire milky way galaxy. It was so gigantic, so magnificent, that if he’d had eyes, Richie wouldn’t even have been able to see it. Its mouth did not move as it spoke, as though its words were just willed into being.

“Uh… An Oscar nominee?” Richie asked. He’d be grinning out of fear if he could. This massive being was getting closer still and Richie had no legs or arms to push himself away. 

_Your Deepest Desire… It Could Not Come To Pass. Had I Done As You Wished And Pleaded I Should, Your Sorrow Would Only Deepen. I Cannot Allow More Harm To Befall You Who Have Braved So Much._

“Wow. Some genie you are,” Richie joked, intimidated more and more the closer that turtle got. “Tell me, which lamp did I rub? ‘Cause last thing I remember stroking was my big, fat—”

_Genie? Oh, Yes… A Human Thing. I See… Yes, I See Now._ It spoke deep and slow, and Richie envisioned an old Chat Bot from the 2000s, processing the text it was given and searching for the right thing to say. _What You Desire Could Not Come To Pass, But There Is Another Way. I Will Grant Your Wish, And All I Ask In Return Is For You To Maintain An Open Mind._

“What? Between mankind and turtlekind? I have to tell ya, buddy, I don’t think anyone’s gonna buy it.”

The turtle stared at him—into him? through him?—and was silent.

“Okay… Well, if that’s all I have to do to get my wish, then sign me up. I wish for more wishes!”

_You,_ boomed the turtle, _Have Always Been One Of My Favorites._ It was spoken with the fondness of a grandparent or a great grandparent...or a great-great grandparent, towards the littlest of little great-great-great grandchildren. If it had lips, Richie reckoned the turtle would be smiling.

If only that fondness was present in the sharp, stinging blow across his cheek—delivered to him by Steve who was glaring down at him, worried face tinged red with anger. 

“What part of ‘follow the instructions on the bottle’ meant take the whole damned thing!? What the hell, Richie!?”

Richie stared up at Steve, blinking hard as his face became blurrier and blurrier until his vision was back to how it normally was.

_“Okay, I wish for better vision,”_ Richie thought to himself. His eyesight stayed shitty and Steve slapped him again.

“Ow! Fuck, dude! I’m up! Jesus!” He was soaking wet and _freezing,_ his nose stuffy and his throat as raw as sandpaper. “Ugh, never mind. I’m better off dead. Just leave me here.”

“I should! We’ll miss our flight!”

“Go on without me, Stevey. I’m not one for this world.” He coughed then, so hard he got to gagging and then puked purple cough syrup onto the shower floor. He hadn’t tasted it on the way down, but he sure as shit did on the way back up. And it hurt a hell of a lot worse. “I think I need a hospital.”

“What you _need_ is rehab! How are you going to do this to me, huh? After all we’ve been through together?” Steve continued to scold him as he helped him up, or at least onto his feet, then turned the shower back on on him and closed the door. “Wash up! We’ve gotta go!”

Richie felt no better getting out of his shower than he had when getting in, and felt worse and worse by the second as Steve threw clothes at him and forced him to get dressed. 

“I think I died for a minute in there, man,” Richie said.

“That’s nice, Rich. Hurry up.”

“Like, no, for real...” He was lightheaded and woozy, concussed maybe, from falling and hitting his head in the shower. “I was in space and I could see everything, but I didn’t have a body and shit? And there was this giant talking turtle that said he was gonna be my genie in a bottle. Didn’t sound shit like Christina Aguilera, though.”

“Get your shoes on. Hurry up, Rich. We gotta go.” Steve was having none of his shit today, it seemed.

“Go easy, man. I hit my fuckin’ head. Feel like I’m dying. You don’t get a paycheck anymore if I’m dead—remember that.” To Steve, he probably sounded like a drunk, but somehow the words did the trick.

Instead of yelling at him, Steve was now in his face staring at his eyes and feeling around his head until pushing against a horribly tender lump on the back of his skull.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. I thought you went to sleep in there like you did back in Hartford! How was I supposed to know you fell and hit your head? Oh, Jesus—Oh, hell!”

Instead of an airport, Richie found himself in the hospital with lights being shined in his eyes and prescription antibiotics being prescribed for the strep throat he didn’t know he’d had and a nasal spray for the cold he’d already known about. 

“Now this means absolutely no drinking,” Steve said as he shook the bottle of antibiotics in front of Richie’s face.

“Wouldn’t even if you paid me,” Richie said, still feeling woozy and out of it—and kind of missing the weightlessness he’d felt in the void of space.

“Do you… Do you want me to go ahead and reschedule our flight or do you need a couple nights off? Don’t push yourself, Rich.”

“No, I can go. I’ll be fine. I just really gotta sleep on the plane.”

“Okay… Let’s get some lunch in you first. Soup and salad? Something easy on your throat?” 

Honestly, Richie hated the idea of soup and salad—most of all the salad—right now, but the words of the turtle started echoing in his mind. As absurd and ridiculous as the fever-dream was, it felt...real. 

And the turtle had told him he needed to keep an open mind in order to have his wish granted, so maybe...maybe this was it. Maybe it was something as simple as soup. Richie was going to give it a try, even if he knew himself well enough to know he’d lose patience with it in a matter of days or just simply get bored. Maybe he’d make it a bit in one of his shows later on down the line: “The Week I Said Yes To Everything!” Only instead of mentioning a giant fucking space turtle and a near death experience with cough syrup and a fancy shower, he’d say he was inspired by Jim Carrey in “Yes Man.”

Actually, you know what, fuck that. The reference was too dated and too out there. He was going with fucked up on cough syrup hallucinating giant turtles. 

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction, and sometimes (not often but sometimes) Richie Tozier might say yes to soup and salad. Today was that day.


	3. Chapter 3

Eddie raked his fingers over the plush orange fabric covering the arms of the tacky chair in his therapist’s office. He didn’t recognize the woman sitting across from him, but the static in his brain assured him that this was correct, this was _right._ She was a real mountain of a woman, dark-skinned with long braids of hair coiled up on top of her head with golden beads woven in that Eddie couldn’t help but stare at. Some strands were blond, some deep red, and others natural black. He thought it looked like a real work of art and he wanted to compliment her on it, but didn’t want to look like he was making an advance...or being racist. No white lady could wear her hair like that and look quite as regal, he wanted to say. Ah, Eddie was just no good at paying people compliments. It was no wonder he didn’t have any friends… 

“I just… I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. I feel so...so _lonely._ Just all the time. And I don’t think I did before. Or—Or if I did, it wasn’t this strong. Sometimes I feel like I’ll go crazy from it. Or… Or _crazier.”_

“Nothing in your behavior at all has led me to believe that you’re crazy, Mr. Kaspbrak,” the woman said, smiling at him so her bright white teeth shined from behind her ruby red lips. 

“I know you keep saying that, but I _feel_ crazy. I’m lonely all the time, my chest _hurts,_ all day and night and no doctors will even _try_ to help me. This one ER in Brooklyn even referred me to substance abuse counseling! Like I’ve got a drug problem because I want my chest not to hurt!”

“Have you been trying those breathing exercises we talked about last session?” Dr. Thompson asked, crossing her legs and flashing her beige, designer shoes. They were pretty too, works of art like her hair, and he was too awkward to compliment them either in fear he’d look like a man with a foot fetish.

Breathing exercises? Slowly, the information came to him. Oh, yes. Those. He knew all about those.

“Yeah, some… But they don’t make the pain stop.”

She talked a bit more about exercises he could do, encouraging him to join _yoga,_ like a man had any business in classroom full of women. They’d all think he was some kind of pervert or he’d be admiring their workout clothes and they’d think he was leering at them when all he was doing was trying to think up a compliment that wouldn’t sound like a come on.

“How are things going with your mother? I know last time you said you were experiencing some issues.”

“Well, she’s been trying to keep me from going to work lately. More so than she usually does, not just when it’s raining. She shouts at me the whole time I’m eating breakfast about smog advisories and things… She told me the other day I shouldn’t be driving anymore, that I need to hire a replacement and just handle all the office work. She doesn’t understand at all when I tell her I’m going stir crazy at the house. I want to go and _see_ people, you know? I… I’d like to maybe _meet_ somebody. It’s embarrassing to be my age and have never had a girlfriend, for example. Or—Or any kind of partner really. The only people I know are my drivers and my mother. It’s… It’s embarrassing. It’s _sad.”_

“It’s never too late to put yourself out there, Mr. Kaspbrak. Have you given any thought to online dating? Even if you don’t meet up with some of the ladies you talk to, it could be helpful practice just to talk to them from the safety of home. I know you tend to over analyze what you say when in person, so maybe having that barrier of texting or instant messaging could help you feel more comfortable communicating until you feel ready to meet in person. What do you think?”

Online dating? He didn’t know what that was at all, but sounded like a way to meet escorts and con artists. Something deep inside him shook its head violently no. That was a very _bad_ idea.

“No—No, I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s for me.”

“Alright. Well perhaps you could try attending book clubs here in the city. I know before you said you’re fond of literature.”

“But what if I go and all the women there just think I’m there to meet them? That has to make me look downright awful!”

“I’m sure you could enjoy the books, too. Most people don’t assume negative intent as soon as they meet someone with a common interest. Some might, but certainly not all.”

“I don’t know,” Eddie said, digging his nails into the orange chair again and looking away toward the window. 

Dr. Thompson told him to challenge himself, to go out and introduce himself to one person—any person, male or female—and make their acquaintance. It could be at a bar for drink or waiting in line at the movies. To him, it sounded like a recipe for disaster and he was going to end up with broken glasses for his efforts… 

“I don’t know… I think I’d do better locked up in the psych ward than out hitting on chicks,” he said, clapping his hands down on his lap. 

“The psych ward? Why is that?”

“Well, ever since the accident I’ve...I’ve just felt _off,_ you know? Like… Like, I _know_ I wasn’t driving a 2016 Lincoln stretch. I was in my new, ‘91 Cadillac. I _know_ it. But that’s crazy! Because it’s 2017 now. But… But that just feels _wrong._ I feel like a time traveler. No—No, I’m certain that I _am_ one. Ask me anything—ask me anything at all about the nineties and I could tell you like it was yesterday!”

“Mr. Kaspbrak,” Dr. Thompson said, bringing out her No Nonsense voice which meant he had crossed a line. “These instances are common in a person experiencing trauma. It does _not mean_ that you need placed in a psychiatric facility. Those facilities are meant for people who are a danger to themselves and to others, people who cannot function in society. You hold a good job and manage your own business. Nothing about you makes you deserving of getting ‘locked up’ in mental health facility.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t _there._ You don’t understand… All my memories, they just seem...fake. They seem splintered! If that makes sense? They seem like...like I’m in two places at once, only the second place is starting to feel further and further away. They kept asking my date of birth at the hospital and right away I said 1947. Because I _was_ born in 1947. I-I remember the 50s! I remember… I remember being afraid to get drafted for Christ’s sake! But what I don’t remember is...is Y2K or—or even 9/11! I know they happened, but I don’t recall them at all. And I’ve lived in New York most my life! How do you live in New York for most your life and not remember September eleventh, 2001?”

Again, Dr. Thompson stressed the importance of his car accident in blocking out these memories. He may have created a “false identity” to help deal with the trauma, and that identity may have blocked out the panic and horror of Y2K and 9/11.

“It’s not that. I _know_ it’s not,” Eddie said, shaking his head defiantly. “I think… What I really think, is I traveled through time and it’s all because of the...”

“The...what, Mr. Kaspbrak?” She asked, crossing and uncrossing her legs again and nodding at him slowly. He really would like to compliment her nice shoes… 

“The turtle… It’s because of the turtle,” he said instead.

“The turtle? What turtle?” 

“If you didn’t want me locked up before, you certainly will now,” he said, taking a deep breath as the dream replayed in his head. “After my accident, I had a dream about this...this giant turtle. It was bigger than anything you can imagine. Bigger than that, even! It was like I was in space, but I wasn’t me. I was just there and I couldn’t see things, I just...I was just a part of them. I was part of the turtle and he was a part of me.”

“Was the turtle God?” Dr. Thompson asked, as calmly and rationally as if he were discussing a business meeting he’d had. 

“I think he’s more than that…” Eddie said, remembering that awful, wonderful place. “Anyway, the turtle told me that...that it could grant my wish if I agreed to let go. He said something like, ‘All that you wish can come true if you forsake this life and cross over to the next.’ Only he said it better than that… I thought I was dying. I thought he meant I needed to die and be reborn as someone else. And… And I guess I did.”

He expected Dr. Thompson to reassure him that most near-death experiences came with hallucinations like that—dreams about tunnels of light or heavenly beings coming for them. But, instead, she asked, “What was your wish, Mr. Kaspbrak?”

Bashful, he grinned and let out a little sigh of a laugh while curling his knuckles into the legs of his beige trousers. “Well, that’s just it. I didn’t wish for anything. I hardly talked at all the whole time I was there. If I had to guess, I’d say it was to...to not feel so disconnected from everyone.”

“To not feel so lonely?” Dr. Thompson pressed.

“Beyond that,” Eddie said, thinking of the words the turtle had spoken. He’d come this far, he thought to himself, he may as well admit it. Maybe it would be just enough to push Dr. Thompson to write him a referral for in-patient care. “He told me—the turtle told me if I agreed to go, then he could promise me...” He stopped to laugh again, his face heating up. “This is probably too personal, but he promised me deep love. Uh… ‘Deep, authentic, toe-curling love.’ A-And I’m not so sure about that last part! I-I certainly never—I mean, I-I can’t even compliment your shoes let alone...let alone take some stranger to bed. So I don’t know enough about that last part to have even wished for it in my sub-subconscious let alone just my...my subconscious.”

Dr. Thompson was still nodding, though her expression did seem a bit humored and bemused. She didn’t laugh at him outright though and that did make him feel a bit better.

“Mr. Kaspbrak, you do not need admitted to a psychiatric hospital. What you’re describing to me is a near-death experience that awoke a message from your subconscious. Maybe even your sub-subconscious as you put it. You are very _lonely,_ Mr. Kaspbrak. Hundreds and hundreds of people who live in this city are just as lonely as you. You need to push yourself to get out there—meet some new people. Make some friends. _Listen to the turtle.”_

Eddie froze, because the voice which came out of Dr. Thompson’s mouth was not her own—and then, in an instant, it was.

“Keep an open mind. Let this dream guide you to something bigger. You’ll be happier for it. And if it goes terribly wrong, which I assure you it won’t, we can talk about it at our session next week. How does that sound?” She was smiling at him, no awareness at all that her voice had changed for that brief moment.

Eddie, too afraid to bring it up, just nodded and stammered out an agreement. 

Listen to the turtle? Roger that, sir. He would listen to the turtle so long as it didn’t start using everyone’s mouths to speak.


	4. Chapter 4

About three weeks after his brush with death, cracking his head on the shower floor of his hotel room, Richie was feeling a million times better. His throat no longer ached, his sinuses were clear, and he was breathing easy. 

He was also happy to say he had yet to lose interest in his Yes Man experiment. So far, it had only served to treat him well (so long as he used his best judgment to say no when it was necessary). Richie now had a fantastic new cologne, had tried authentic Nigerian cuisine, discovered a passion for plantains, and learned that agreeing to a simple phone interview could lead to him starring in fun YouTube video that boosted his social media traffic by fourteen percent. The video was pretty fun and he’d made friends with the host, which in turn got him linked up with a charity organization the YouTuber followed—and subsequently led to him being included in that organization’s banquet scheduled for that winter.

There were some downsides, too, of course. He agreed to let someone’s assistant take his suit to get laundered which ended up with his suit being _stolen._ He had to buy another that wasn’t tailored to him while a good suit was made for him and scheduled to be shipped to Beverly’s townhouse in New York for him to pick up when he was in town. He also learned that he did not like authentic cappuccinos and anyone who said they did must’ve been French or faking. Where was the sugar? Honesty! He got ripped off by a doorman and had given away quite a bit of money to people who claimed to be homeless.

Overall, though, he was having a pretty good time of it. Steve also seemed to be enjoying it, too, as he didn’t have to fight as much to get Richie to do as he pleased. 

Today, Steve’s mission was to get him where he was supposed to be on time every day while he was in New York after a disastrous trip to Philly. They were already on the phone at a little past six in the morning, making today already feel like Hell because his show would keep him out easily until after eleven tonight.

“No, no, no. Rich—Richie, Richie, Richie,” Steve insisted, voice garbled with static from the bad connection. “You are a _pro_ now, okay? Not some rookie. We don’t _take_ Ubers and Lyfts anymore. Alright? You are a top-tier comedian. Alright? You don’t see Leno taking Uber.”

“Well, Leno’s got that sick car collection—”

“Ah-bahbah! No! No, you don’t take Ubers anymore. Ubers make you _late._ Alright? Now listen, I found a nice car service—a luxury car service here in the city. Locally owned and operated! None of that calling customer service in the Philippines. They do luxury cars and limousines, so—”

“So does Uber Black,” Richie teased, making himself a pot of coffee with the little cheapo pouches and suspiciously clean coffee maker on the hotel dresser. It looked like it was fresh out the box… That was unusual for any hotel, no matter how luxurious.

“Richie… Come on now. No one knows these streets better than the locals. And those Uber drivers know it, alright? They rip you off.”

“There’s GPS—”

“Richie, don’t make me beg you. Come on. It’s a nice service. We’ve got it arranged. They guarantee to get you there on time, but it just costs a little extra. And you _know_ you can afford it. Come on.” He kept coaxing and pressing while Richie pretended to give him the run around just to listen to him squirm. 

“Alright, alright. You twisted my arm,” Richie said, watching the coffee pot gurgle to life. “What time will they be here?”

“They’re to be at the hotel at seven, once you give confirmation. Is it okay to charge it to the card?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Go ahead.” 

So Richie drank his morning coffee in the hotel-branded paper cup while puttering around his room, taking his time to get dressed. He finished off the pot of coffee and threw away the paper cup before making a ball out of his used towels and cloths and setting them where the cleaning ladies could find them and replace them with ease.

After that, he grabbed his phone and his shoulder bag and set out for his day. He had taken hardly four steps into the lobby off the elevator before he heard his name being called, snapping his attention away from his business phone where he was texting Steve.

Waiting by one of the over-sized, decorative planters was a man in glasses with a mop of golden curls that had Richie immediately thinking of a loyal golden retriever. He was waving politely, flashing a black Fitbit on his wrist that matched his trim, black suit—but not the red turtle neck he wore with it. Formal, but not too formal. Richie liked it. 

“Good morning, Mr. Tozier!” The man said, his voice coming off a little shaky, a little timid almost, and yet completely natural. Like if this man went through the drive thru at MickyD’s and ordered a Quarter Pounder with cheese (he looked like he could use about three of them), he’d sound just the same—like he was scared even the menu board might attack him. 

“Morning,” Richie said. “Are you with the car company?”

“Yes, sir!” Again sounding startled and afraid, but still smiling. “I have the car out front waiting. Let me go and get it started for you, Mr. Tozier.” Oof, this guy was cute. If he made a reference to _Star Wars, Star Trek,_ or even _Harry Potter_ during their drive, Richie would be down on one damned knee. 

Okay, okay, that was an exaggeration—Richie Tozier was never getting fucking married—but he might try to get the guy to go out for drinks once their business was done and he was set to leave the city for good. Best case scenario, he got himself a nice one night stand and could find out if this timid little golden boy was a freak in the sheets. (The innocent looking ones always were.) Worst case scenario, some random driver in the Big Apple had another bit of gossip to share with the boys. 

“Can I take your bag for you, sir?” The man asked, making Richie suddenly aware that he was staring like a moron at those big, brown doe-eyes that somehow...somehow seemed familiar. Inviting. _Warm._

“No… No, thanks,” Richie said, biting back an inappropriate comment he really didn’t need to go and say his first time meeting this man. Despite what his friends might think, he didn’t get this far in life without a selective verbal filter.

“Of course, sir. I’ll go bring the car around to the doors for you.”

Richie hesitated by the gigantic planters with their tall, live trees—staring after the man as he walked away. Had he said what his name was? Richie could whip out his incognito Tinder really quick and do some swiping. Or his Grindr. Or his MeetMe… Or his Bumble. Good old fashioned Facebook wouldn’t hurt either. He liked to have a little info going in if he could get it—like a confirmation if someone was gay or not. Or if they were into _Star Wars_ or the KKK. Most of the time he found his target—not always, but most of the time.

Once he was a respectable distance away, he started for the doors. He got himself pulled together by the time a sleek black car had rolled up to the curb, but still tried to reach for the door handle of the car himself only to have the man leap out and hurry toward him.

“My apologies, Mr. Tozier. I should have realized you were in a hurry. My mistake, sir.” No ring on his left hand, Richie noticed, but nice golden one on the right.

“Oh—No. I’m just a moron. I’m not used to people opening doors for me. Feels like we’re on a date!” Oh nice going, halfwit.

The man chuckled and ducked his head bashfully as he opened the door for Richie and gestured for him to make his way inside. Richie rubbed at his face as soon as the door clicked shut—a soft thump, no slamming—and pressed his fingers against his eyes beneath his glasses. 

_See, Stevey boy? This is why we take Ubers!_ He was going to have to sit in that stupid blunder of a comment for the rest of the damned day.

Unless… Unless they did a shift change!

“So, are you going to be my driver for the whole day then?” Richie asked as the man got back in the driver’s seat, doing this cute little shimmy as he adjusted his coat and fastened his seat belt. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Tozier. What was that you said?” The man asked, politely turning around in his seat to face him—that same timid smile on his face that was making Richie’s brain turn into something thick and bland like oatmeal… 

“I said you’re going to be my driver for the whole day then?” Richie repeated. The man’s face started to fall, like he really thought he’d somehow ruined things by not being there to open the door the instant the car came to a stop. 

“Oh. Yes. Yes, sir. Unless there’s a problem—”

“I was just curious,” Richie said, offering a smile he knew had to look either predatory or stupid. He always looked like a moron when he was nervous. “I’m not used to having a driver unless I’m going to an award show or something. This is all new to me.”

“Of course, sir. Then yes, I’ll be your driver—anywhere you need to go.” He turned back around and started tapping the navigation system in the front console. “I see your network has a big day planned for you, Mr. Tozier. We’ve got some time before your first stop of the day. Would you like me to take you anywhere for coffee or breakfast along the way?”

“Coffee? Uh—Yeah. Yeah, sure. You know a place?” Richie asked. The last thing he needed in his system right now was more caffeine. Some breakfast might hit the spot though. “Coffee and breakfast?”

“Of course, sir.” A few more buttons pressed on the navigation system and the silence. 

Richie tried to focus on his phone, but found himself mostly looking at the blond curls poking out over top of the headrest and the calm, contented but focused look on his driver’s face. Traffic made Richie bat shit crazy, but this guy sat at the red lights and crawled through the streets like he didn’t have a care in the world. Before he knew it, he’d been staring a good fifteen minutes and they were pulled up alongside a small cafe with several patrons nibbling on scones on patio seats out front.

“You aren’t coming inside?” Richie asked after waiting this time for the driver to get the door for him.

“No, sir! I’ll wait here with the car.” He smiled that same, little grin he’d had this morning in the lobby as Richie started for the cafe. 

When Richie looked over his shoulder, the man was leaning back against the black car looking down at his shoes—completely missing the women who ogled him as they walked past with a little dog. They even stopped speaking as they passed him on the sidewalk but he never lifted his gaze from his black, shiny shoes. 

While he waited in line, Richie took out his phone and held a short text conversation with Beverly. It was a little bit about plans for her, Ben, and Bill to come out to dinner before his show tonight and a little bit more about his driver. Of his friends, she was the first he’d felt comfortable enough to tell about himself...about Eddie.

“Richie,” she had said, taking his hand into both of hers and squeezing. “I think after what happened...after everything in the cistern… We all… We all kind of knew that.” She’d looked serious for a moment, then had started to smile and then they were both laughing and he may or may not have been on the verge of crying with relief.

She had looked a little teary-eyed, too, but she was probably much more so now because she had become his confidant for every single male attraction he encountered on a day-to-day basis… Which was a lot. Forty-years of repressed sexuality took its toll, but it would’ve been a hell of a lot worse if not for Bev—if not for her genuine support, proving each and every time he sent a dumb text or a bad photo of a stranger that she would still love him no matter what.

 _Sounds cute!_ Beverly texted him.

_Too cute. Like a golden doodle._

_Well don’t try to adopt him. Is he young?_

_Maybe?? Definitely 30+ Still deciding if dyed blond or blond._

_Have him pick us up for dinner! I can tell you._

Richie smiled at the thought and then realized he was next in line with no idea what he wanted. He ordered the first breakfast wrap he saw on the board, a cup of black coffee, and then a coffee with vanilla and caramel… When asked, he made the caramel a drizzle. 

He was one step off from making a shitty joke when he got back to the car with his breakfast wrap tucked into foil and two cups of coffee in the cardboard carrier. Just as the driver had finished opening the door for him, Richie untucked the special coffee from the carrier and handed it to him, earning the most delighted, startled “oh!” that had ever been uttered on the planet. 

“Oh! Oh, wow, Mr. Tozier! Thank you. Uh—Uh, thank you! So much!”

“Don’t mention it,” Richie said, getting into the car and trying to play it cool while the man stammered and gaped at the coffee like he’d just been handed a priceless jewel necklace. 

“Of course, yes. Thank you!” He closed the door and Richie watched him through the tinted windows as he walked around to the driver’s side of the car, looking flustered and with a little extra spring in his step as he moved. 

That same, adorable shimmy as he got in his seat. Richie shook his head and tried to hide his smile behind a sip of the scalding hot coffee. His driver was looking over his coffee cup, reading the writing on it before smiling a little to himself and taking a tentative sip—then looking delighted all over again.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Tozier! I actually dropped my thermos on the way out of my house this morning. I didn’t have time to get another cup. Thank you! Thank you so much.” He was turned around in his seat to face Richie again, looking…

Oh, it was that golden retriever look again—like Richie had just thrown the tennis ball and had now made a friend for life. The crease in his brow almost made the blond man’s smile look sad, and his big eyes had Richie’s stomach doing flips. 

“Figured if you were up in this traffic before I was, you could probably use a whole pot,” Richie said, forgetting his mouth was full until a piece of egg fell out onto his lap and the man grimaced just a tiny bit before whipping back around and starting the car. 

Smooth, dumbass. Real smooth.

Richie kept his mouth shut and made sure to wipe up the small mess he’d made before he arrived at the network building for his morning meeting. It was his knee-jerk reaction to open the car door himself and ended up flinching away from it like it was hot once he caught himself. 

“Thanks for lift,” Richie said, feeling so out of place when the man took his trash from him when he’d tried to carry it out of the car himself to be thrown away inside the building. 

“Not a problem, Mr. Tozier. I’ll be back at eleven to take you to the luncheon.” There was hardly a foot of space between them and Richie was frozen there, realizing he smelled like breakfast burrito—bacon and scrambled egg—while this guy smelled like that same cologne Richie had bought on a whim just a few weeks before. An ocean smell, but with a hint of spice. “And, uh, thank you again for the coffee. I’ll probably have it finished before I even get around the block.”

“Well, in this traffic I bet you will,” Richie said, unsticking himself from the sidewalk and taking a step away. “Oh—Hey, what did you say your name was again?” He asked, making sure to actually pay attention when the man talked and not just listen to the sound of his timid little voice.

“It’s Edward,” the driver answered as he made his way to the driver’s side door and opened it. He looked flattered that Richie had even asked. How many of his clients just straight up treated him like a robot—like a tool to be used and not a man with a soul and a life and a name? “Edward Kaspbrak, sir. Have a good morning! I’ll be back at eleven and will meet you right here.”

“Good… Good morning,” Richie echoed, staring even after the car had pulled away.

He heard it wrong. Had to have heard it wrong. He hadn’t actually been listening, he told himself. He hadn’t actually been listening at all. Edward Claptrap, he’d said. Edward Gascap.

The whole meeting, that’s where his mind was stuck.

Edward… What had he said? Edward Clapback. Cashstack? Cash _back?_

There was no way in Hell, that man was Eddie Kaspbrak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody stop me! The chapters just keep pouring out. This is what I get for outlining for once aaaah! I hope you are enjoying this weird, bumpy ride!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly did not expect this story to get as much love as it has! I started outlining it while in training at my new job (I'm a bit ahead of the curve and downtime makes me, uh, crazy). I thought no one in their right mind would ever want to see this weird pairing or find it half as adorable or amusing as I do. The fact that so many of you have reached out to let me know you're enjoying it makes me so, so happy! I'm really having a great time writing this and I'm so stoked you all are enjoying it too!

Eddie sat in the little park a few blocks over from the parking deck where he’d left the car. The coffee Mr. Tozier had given him was still being cradled in his hands, an hour after he’d given it to him. Eddie was savoring it, loving the way the caramel had settled in the bottom making each sip sweeter than the last. If asked, he always said he took his coffee with no sugar—trying in even the smallest of ways to make himself look more grown up and mature—but at home, in private when his mother wasn’t looking, he liked to add enough to make the dark beverage delightfully sweet.

None of his clients had ever bought him coffee before. Plenty had offered, but only out of formality. The kind of offer that would’ve spelled disaster if he’d ever said yes. Eddie was going to savor each and every drop of this special one Mr. Tozier had given him.

The man was so unbelievably kind, Eddie thought. So unlike what he’d expected after reviewing the file when it came across his desk. Well, his phone… Hardly any work was actually done in his office these days. Eddie had watched some of the man’s material, wanting to be able to understand any references or curve balls the man might throw at him on the drive. Not all his clients were chatty cathies, but some were—and if they wanted to take the opportunity to toot their own horn and you didn’t really know who they were, you could kiss their business goodbye. His company had never worked with Mr. Tozier before (and after watching some of his very lewd skits, Eddie wasn’t so sure at the time he’d wanted to work with him at all) and a note in his file said he was wary of car services but in need of “on time, speedy, reliable service.” Eddie was all those things, and even if he disagreed with the man’s crude performances, he decided it would be the right thing to do to go ahead and make the offer. 

He never expected that the comedian would be so down-to-earth and polite and friendly. He’d even asked Eddie’s name! And not in a ‘I want your name so I can report you to the boss!” kind of way. 

Eddie tried not to let it go to his head, but he was absolutely over the moon. 

When the last of his coffee was gone, he went to get a bite to eat and hurriedly rinsed out and washed the paper cup as best he could in the men’s room sink so that he might save it. A memento, he told himself. He’d certainly never, ever drink from it again, but he could look at it on his shelf and smile to himself about it. He could think, ‘That’s the cup of coffee Mr. Tozier game me. He didn’t have to, but he did!’ 

Eddie was only struck with the absurdity of it all when he went to pick up Mr. Tozier from the network building to drive him to his luncheon. He got the door for Mr. Tozier who smiled at him just as politely as he had this morning—though the crease in his brow did have him looking a bit vexed. 

“Still nursing that coffee?” Mr. Tozier asked from the backseat, having seen the coffee cup nestled in the cup holder next to Eddie’s large cup of ice water.

“Oh! Oh—Yes. Yes, I—well, no. I finished it. That is… The cup is empty.” Eddie turned back around to face the windshield so quickly it almost made him dizzy. His face was burning hot with embarrassment. Not only had he started to lie—nothing hurt business integrity like an obvious white lie—but then admitted to driving around with trash in the front seat. What a _mess_ he was today. He’d already had to change into the first clean shirt he could find after spilling coffee down his blue oxford—now he was looking like a real slob in a mismatched expensive suit and cheap red turtleneck with garbage in the front seat in view of the customer!

“Cool,” Mr. Tozier said, tapping at his legs a second before he got out his phone and started texting. 

Eddie let out a deep breath and pressed the buttons on the confusing “G. P. S. System” and started down the road to the restaurant. They were making remarkable time despite an accident closing off the route Eddie had initially planned to take. 

“So, Eddie, you from New York?” Mr. Tozier asked.

Eddie had half a second to panic, fearing that instead of introducing himself properly he’d let slip his nickname instead of his full name. He couldn’t remember if he had or if Mr. Tozier was just trying to be “chummy.”

“Oh! Um—Yes, well… Mostly. I’ve lived here most my life. I know these streets almost better than anyone.” It was hardwired in his brain that whenever a client asked something personal, it was because they wanted to tie it in to a jab at his work or a story about their own. It went without saying that Eddie assumed Mr. Tozier was, for some reason, doubting his navigational skills of the city.

“Do you like it? Driving around in all this—this shit?” Mr. Tozier asked, looking around out all the windows and waving one of his hands as if swatting a fly.

Eddie really hoped there weren’t a filthy, fuzzy black fly buzzing around the car bothering him.

“I don’t mind it at all. The car’s the only place I feel...at home. You’re on the road a lot yourself, Mr. Tozier. I’m sure you feel quite the same.”

“Home? On the road? Don’t you listen to _Journey,_ man? The road ain’t no place to start a family.” 

Eddie glanced in the rear view mirror to see Mr. Tozier’s electric blue eyes staring right back at him. It caught him so off guard he almost missed his turn—but he did recover just in time to make the curve smoothly. The ice in his cup barely rattled. 

“Terribly sorry for the assumption, Mr. Tozier. I imagine my experiences on the road aren’t quite the same as yours. My apologies, sir.” He swallowed hard, not allowing himself to look back and see whatever expression was on the man’s face. He’d clearly, _clearly_ offended him—way overstepping the boundaries of their business relationship. He was sure if Mr. Tozier could, he’d go back in time and throw that coffee right in Eddie’s face.

“So you got a family out here?”

“Me?” Eddie asked, face heating up from all the attention. Why wouldn’t Mr. Tozier just leave him alone? He’d offended the man! Why was Mr. Tozier setting him up to make more mistakes? 

Oh, Eddie really was horrible at this social interaction thing. He did much better over the phone—and much better with his usual clients who didn’t want to talk about him. There were so many more interesting topics in the world than him.

“Yeah. You said you’ve lived here most your life. Do you have a family here? Wife and kids? Kids at all? _Mother?”_

Eddie kept his eyes trained dutifully on the road. Mr. Tozier’s tone had seemed a bit too...direct? Was that it? Playful? When he asked about his mother. There was no way anyone at his agency had told Mr. Tozier that he still lived with his mother… Mr. Tozier hadn’t been in contact with them directly at all. His manager handled all of it, and no one would bring up such an off topic thing to him.

Oh… Oh, no. It was one of his skits. One Eddie hadn’t seen to know. Probably his most famous one, too, and Eddie looked like a fool not recognizing it.

“No—No wife, sir. No children,” Eddie answered, his chest giving a painful clench that had him doubling over for a moment. Luckily they were stopped at a red light.

“Whoa! You okay dude? You’re not having a heart attack on me are you?”

“No! No, Mr. Tozier. I’m quite alright. I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, sir.” His hand shook as he grabbed his ice water and took a sip, trying to keep his squinted eyes on the light to see if it changed.

“You sure?”

“I-I’ve had some rib pain since I was in an accident. Unrelated to work, sir. I’m perfectly willing to show my driving record. If… If you feel uncomfortable with my service I can call another driver to pick you up from lunch.”

“You don’t need to go that far, man. You’re good. It’s cool. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t dying on me.” Mr. Tozier sounded so genuine. It was as if Eddie had...had picked up a friend today and not a customer. It was an odd feeling. A warm feeling that made him both happy and downright afraid. “Was it bad? The accident you were in?”

“Uh… Yes, I’m told it was, sir. It was a...a multi-car pileup in the Lincoln Tunnel. I don’t remember any of it at all.” 

“Well, damn! That had to suck. You know…with only dear old Mrs. K at your bedside.”

“I-I’m sorry?” Eddie asked, glancing in the rear view once more to see Mr. Tozier still staring. If his face started burning any hotter, Eddie was afraid he might faint. “Forgive me, Mr. Tozier. I’m… I’m sorry to say I’m not very familiar with your work if...if that’s a line from a show. I’m terribly, terribly sorry.”

Eddie’s eyes fell to the paper cup that had once held coffee and saw it now drained completely of hope. He couldn’t make a friend even if he tried…

“It’s not from my show. I’m teasing you, old pal. Lighten up. You said you got no wife or kids, so it must’ve been dear old Mrs. Kaspbrak nursing you back to health.”

“My mother?” Eddie asked, laughing nervously. “Well, I-I will admit so, sir. Yes. She’s older now, you see, so...so it makes the most sense that she live with me so I can take care of her. You know, sir, in case anything were to happen.”

“Eddie Kapsbrak,” Mr. Tozier said, almost as if to himself—if not for his piercing blue eyes staring into Eddie’s through the mirror. “That’s what you said your name was. Right? Kasp _brak?”_

“Y-Yes, sir. Is there… Is there a problem? I’m—I’m the owner of the business, if you have a complaint with my service you can certainly talk about it with me. Mr. Tozier, I’m awfully sorry if I overstepped—”

“Eds, you need to pop a chill pill. Just a...a unique name. Can’t say I’ve heard it before.”

“Oh. It’s, uh, it’s German—or so my mom told me. Can’t say I’ve met many Kaspbraks either. Outside of Christmas, you know. Before my father passed away.”

“Uh-huh… Damn, I’m sorry to hear that. When did he pass?”

“Oh—I was just little. Very young. Nothing to trouble yourself over, Mr. Tozier, but thank you.”

Mr. Tozier was quiet for maybe five minutes, giving Eddie time to recover from the pang in his chest and take another drink of ice water. 

“I have to say, Eds. I like that turtleneck on you.” It came so out of left field that Eddie’s face went as dark red as the shirt in question.

“M-My turtleneck, sir? Um—Um, why...why thank you! Thank you, Mr. Tozier. That’s kind of you to say.”

Mr. Tozier laughed at him then, this little giggle that made heat rush through Eddie’s whole body. If he didn’t wreck this car, it’d be a damned miracle!

“It’s.. It’s not the most professional, is it?” Eddie asked, reminding himself that clients _seldom_ made comments like that unless it was a jab. “T-To be truly honest, Mr. Tozier… I-I mentioned earlier that I dropped my thermos this morning. I… I actually dropped it on myself, you see. Ruined the shirt I was supposed to wear. I didn’t want to be late so I put on the first shirt I could find.”

“I like it. I spend all day with a bunch of pricks in suits and ties. They make _me_ into a prick in a suit and tie. All I wanna do is go back to my hotel and put on one of my nice, loose Hawaiians and some jeans. If I were you, Eds, I’d dump coffee on all those crappy button downs you own. Turtleneck looks good on you.” 

“I’m—I’m glad you think so, Mr. Tozier. Thank you. I was very nervous leaving the house in it. I—”

“Look fine. You look fine,” Mr. Tozier said.

Eddie felt the butterflies in his stomach fluttering like mad, his heart beating a little bit harder. He’d had drunken clients come onto him a time or two—clearly too drunk to see straight or they would’ve hunted out an easier, better-looking option—but never someone stone cold sober. He didn’t know what to do with himself, besides keep driving and pretend it wasn’t happening. At least it wasn’t like the nice lady at the bar. Here he didn’t have a daiquiri to spill on himself. 

“So what are you going to do for lunch, Eds? Actually, you know...what _do you do_ when you’re waiting around for people?”

“Oh, I’ll probably go to Sally’s,” Eddie answered, ignoring the second question all together. What he did in his spare time was private...and he didn’t want to admit to sitting in a park cradling a mostly-empty cup of coffee. “It’s this great little bistro not far from where you’re getting lunch today, Mr. Tozier. If you’re in town for long, I highly recommend it. Best iced tea in the whole city.”

“Yeah? What do you usually get when you go?”

“Why, I get the Southern Wrap, but with the special...special tortilla.” The words felt as if they were being fed to him from somewhere else. He’d never even _heard_ of a place called Sally’s, but now that place sounded like it would really hit the spot. “And an iced blackberry sweet tea.”

“You’re making me jealous. I’m going to have to go pretend one fillet mignon is gonna fill me up. I don’t know if you noticed, Eds, but I’m a big dude. You think one little fillet is going to keep me going?” Mr. Tozier was squirming around the backseat like a little kid who’d been given too much candy. Eddie imagined he had quite the high metabolism despite his age which was what kept him moving and hungry.

“I’d be happy to pick you up something from Sally’s—or, or anywhere you’d like. I can charge it to the account for you, sir.” He said that, but deep down in his guts he knew he wouldn’t. He would pay for it himself. To make up for all the little blunders he’d made since this morning, and to thank Mr. Tozier for the coffee. 

“That actually sounds fuckin’ incredible. Get me whatever you get. As long as there’s meat—and a lot of it. _Starving.”_ Mr. Tozier was staring out the window with his chin resting on his hand, one knee bouncing up and down.

When they reached the restaurant where Mr. Tozier was having his luncheon, the man patted Eddie on the shoulder just after he opened the door for him. It was a warm, all too friendly gesture that had Eddie’s face going hot all the way to the tips of his ears. Mr. Tozier definitely saw it, too, because he chuckled at him again.

“Chill pill, Eds. I’m sure you’ve got one in your fanny pack.” Mr. Tozier winked at him and Eddie thought he just might faint. He was being all too obvious, wasn’t he? That Mr. Tozier’s polite attention had gone to his head and had him feeling things he shouldn’t...

Once Mr. Tozier was gone into the restaurant, Eddie stumbled back to the car and sucked down more of his ice water, hands shaking as he did. He did, in fact, do as Mr. Tozier suggested and pop one of his fast-acting anti-anxiety meds—but it didn’t come from a fanny pack. It came from the emergency toiletry bag he kept in the glovebox along with a travel toothbrush and paste, floss, breath mints, aspirin, tums, some ex-lax and a bunch of other necessary things. He didn’t like to take these when he had to drive, but he was afraid if he didn’t he might very well have a heart attack like Mr. Tozier said. 

He found a place to park the car, then walked the rest of the way to Sally’s, ordering his meal and picking at it the hour and a half he had to wait for Mr. Tozier to be finished with his meeting. He ordered a second wrap and large blackberry iced tea for Mr. Tozier, paid for it himself without charging it to the company card for reimbursement later, and threw away the receipt so the man couldn’t even try to pay him back.

“Oh, my God! You’re better than a housewife, Eds!” Mr. Tozier exclaimed when he saw Eddie waiting out front for him with the bag of food and drink in hand. “Marvelous! Marvelous, I say!” He was putting on some voice that made Eddie’s chest clench.

It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t place what. Or _who._ It felt familiar, somehow. 

The food, it seemed, kept Mr. Tozier calm and most of his ride to his photoshoot was spent stuffing his face and slurping tea in between Eddie’s polite questions. It was better he talk than Mr. Tozier. Less chance of Mr. Tozier asking him a question that caught him off guard and nearly made him crash, he thought.

“How was the luncheon, Mr. Tozier?”

“Boring!” The man professed, mouth full. At least he cleaned up after himself, Eddie thought, trying to repress the urge to shake his head. “They had three courses—but salad shouldn’t count as a course. I’ve got bug eyes, not buck teeth. I’m not a rabbit!”

“Certainly not, Mr. Tozier! I’m glad I could help.”

“Food’s fuckin’ phenomenal, man. From now on, every time I’m in New York, I’m calling you to tell me where to eat. Two for two, you’re on a winning streak here with the restaurants.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Tozier, sir. I’m always happy to help.”

“What do I owe ya? I can text Steve so he doesn’t flip his shit later thinking you’re trying to upcharge. He _freaks_ if he thinks we got upcharged.”

“Oh, no charge today, Mr. Tozier. I took care of it for you.”

“What?”

“I… I paid for it...for you, Mr. Tozier,” Eddie said, his heart stuttering a little bit but not nearly as bad as before. He was thankful the pills had helped, even just a little bit. What had he been thinking paying for Mr. Tozier’s whole meal? He should’ve just bought the tea! A drink for a drink! Oh, gosh… He was coming on too strong—like he always did if he wanted to be someone’s friend. “To say thank you for the coffee,” he stammered.

“You didn’t have to do that, Eds! Opening doors for me and now buying me lunch… I have to say, Eddie, it feels an awful lot like we’re on a date.” In the rear view mirror, Richie’s blue eyes were on him with one eyebrow playfully quirked.

It had to have been the pills talking (or maybe it was the turtle) when Eddie immediately said, “Well, that’s the level of service you paid for, Mr. Tozier. If your manager hadn’t blocked the upcharge, we would’ve upgraded you to the escort service, too.”

“Oh, escort service!” Mr. Tozier boomed, clapping his hands and laughing. The next thing Eddie knew, the man was playfully punching him on the shoulder, practically keeling over with laughter while Eddie himself was laughing the slightest bit in mortification at himself.

Did he just call himself a prostitute? What in the world kind of joke was that to make with a client!?

“Eddie, Eddie! That’s _golden!_ I didn’t think you had it in you! All ‘sir’ this and ‘Mr. Tozier’ that! Please, Eddie—You gotta do me a favor. You have to!”

“I-I’ll sure try, Mr. Tozier,” Eddie said, his right arm throbbing from how many times it’d been hit yet somehow he didn’t mind.

“The rest of the day, just call me John!”

“But… But your name’s Richard, Mr. Tozier,” Eddie said, missing the joke by a mile and then shuddering at himself once he caught on. 

This set Mr. Tozier off on another peel of laughter until he was taking off his glasses to wipe his eyes. 

“Tell me, Eddie, is it too late to upgrade my service?” He asked, still laughing to himself. 

Eddie didn’t know if he was joking or not. 

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Tozier. The feds seem to have caught on so we’re keeping a low profile now. Just car service with the occasional sandwich wrap.” 

Mr. Tozier laughed at his weak joke again and it left Eddie feeling both bashful and flattered. He’d made a _comedian_ laugh! He couldn’t wait to go home and tell mother!

“Alright then—alright. Well, make me another deal then.”

“Okay, Mr. Tozier. I’ll try,” Eddie answered, fingers gripping tighter to the steering wheel. 

“No more of that Mr. Tozier stuff. Just call me Richie. Okay?”

“Oh… Oh, I don’t know, sir. But—But if you insist, then alright. I-I’ll try.” 

In the backseat, Mr. Tozier was smiling at him. It was warm and friendly and inviting. Part of Eddie just wanted to climb into the backseat next time they were stopped and just sit with him and talk—talk for hours about all sorts of thing. Or nothing at all!

Instead, he settled for asking Mr. Tozier about his stay in New York and how he was liking it. He got Mr. Tozier talking about airports and flights and how he was sick his whole stay in Las Vegas. 

“Oh, I’ve never been to Vegas, Mr. Uh—Richie. I’ve never been, but it looks like a whole lot of fun.”

“Eds! Eds, you have to go! You _have_ to! A straight-laced guy like you needs to cut loose sometime. I bet you even wear suspenders under that jacket—oh, shit! You do, don’t you! Let me see!”

“No!” Eddie snapped, flinching away—surprised by how firm his voice was when Mr. Tozier reached for him. His arm was still sore from the playful punching and he’d had quite enough of the rough housing for a moment. “I-I mean—I’m driving, Mr. Tozier. I-I wouldn’t want to swerve and crash.”

Mr. Tozier spent the rest of the ride looking cowed, but continuing to pass Eddie little tight-lipped smiles through the mirror. 

Feeling bad for him, Eddie found himself compelled to pull him back into conversation. He looked like a little boy who just got put in time out.

“Are you, uh, excited for your show tonight, Mr. Tozier?” He asked, turning around just long enough to pass Mr. Tozier a smile, hoping to reassure him. It was such an odd, unusual situation for him to be in. His clients _never_ acted this way… Especially not the sober ones. He’d been hit by a lady before because she thought he took a longer route than was necessary, but was never playfully batted or had a client joke about reaching under his clothes!

“Absolutely! I’m fucking hype, man. It’s gonna be great. My friends are gonna be there. We’re all meeting up for dinner tonight, too.”

“That’s great, Mr. Tozier!”

“Richie...”

“Oh—Right, my apologies. I’m so sorry, sir. That’s—That’s great news. I’m happy you get to see your...your friends.” He felt his chest clench again, that same sharp pain that had him tightening his hold on the steering wheel. 

“Hey, uh, I don’t know how this whole car thing works. Would you—Would you be able to pick _up_ my friends for dinner tonight? I have to go to the hotel after this and get some things and then I’m going to Bev’s house—but once I’m there, can you pick up my buddy Bill and his wife? Then swing back by Bev’s and get us for dinner? I know that’s probably a time commitment… It _has_ to be you though. I want it to be you picking up my friends—not some stranger.”

“I’d be happy to, sir! We charge by the hour and mile, so it’s no trouble at all. I’ll just need the addresses and names. I can make arrangements while you’re at your photo shoot this evening. And—And I’d be _glad_ to be their driver.”

“Awesome,” Mr. Tozier said, clapping his hands again. “Beverly’s gonna fuckin’ flip. I’m so excited. Ha!” He was buried in his phone in an instant. “You got a cell phone, Eddie? I’ll text the addresses to you.”

His eyes met Eddie’s through the rear view mirror again and Eddie felt that warm rush of heat traveling up and down his spine—through every single one of his limbs and fingers and toes. Other places, too.

Oh, gosh!

Policy was to send the addresses to the company email and he’d get it from there. He didn’t give his personal number to clients and he’d never...he never bothered to get a business phone. That was what the static in his head told him anyway. 

And yet, Eddie recited his phone number with a smile. Moments later, Mr. Tozier had sent him a text.

Richie had sent him a text!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I will probably have more up stupidly soon because I can't stop.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhoh... Is it time for that angst and misunderstandings tag already??? I think it is ):

It had hardly been ten minutes since he and his friends got into the limousine, but Richie could tell something was off. Eddie had picked Bill up first on his way to Beverly’s where she and Ben were waiting with Richie, and seemed in his typical good spirits as Richie got into the new, bigger car and introduced them. Eddie was polite and bashful as he’d been all day, and seemed so flattered when Richie introduced him to his friends using his full name.

“And, guys, this is Eddie Kaspbrak. Right? Isn’t that what it was?” Richie had asked, watching the blond man’s face to see any sign of doubt, any sign of deceit that might cross it. Instead, those huge eyes went soft and his forehead creased in that way that made him smile look fretful and worried. 

“That’s right, Mr. Tozier. I-I have to say you’re probably my first client whose remembered my full name. I sure hope it’s a good thing.” He laughed then, in this timid little way like he was trying to make a joke to hide the fact that he really was worried Richie had learned his name in order to leave him a bad review.

“Kaspbrak, you said?” Ben asked, earning himself a full dose of those worried, brown eyes. Ben was straight as an arrow, but even his face softened when he met Eddie’s timid, anxious eyes. 

How did he manage a business with a face like that? It was a wonder none of his customers had kidnapped him yet. He had to be pushing thirty-five—maybe even forty—and yet his eyes held all the wonder and innocence of a little kid. 

Kind of… Kind of like Eddie’s. _Their_ Eddie’s. Only without the haughty attitude behind the constant anxiety and fear. 

Richie had mostly settled into the idea that this was some awful coincidence, some strange happenstance that led to him running into someone who shared a name with his best friend. No matter what he threw at Eddie, this Eddie, the man seemed genuine in his confusion and his replies. If, for some reason, the guy was using Eddie’s name to fuck with him, there really seemed to be no purpose for it. If it were a prank, somehow—if someone, somehow found out about Eddie and what Richie had felt for him and wanted to tease him—it was really lousy. This guy looked nothing like Eddie, talked nothing like Eddie—he moved differently, carried himself differently. It’d be one thing if he’d just _looked_ like his old friend and tried to put on his name or some mannerisms, but this guy never even once took a hit from an inhaler. He also never went on tangents about germs or infections or any of the things _his_ Eddie was so meticulous about.

“Yes, sir. Um… Well, there’s an accident on the route I’d originally picked for us tonight, but I found another and we should still arrive a few minutes early for your dinner reservation.” He was flustered because everyone was staring at him and no one was speaking. 

Even Beverly had a weird look her face—perhaps even more wary and suspicious than Bill. 

Richie wondered if it was because more people were around or if it were the looks he was getting or the mumbled words passed between them, but without any comment or warning, Eddie put up the divider and had shielded himself from view. 

While his friends dissolved into a hush-tones discussion about how strange it was that the driver had the same name as their friend, Richie was left staring at the black divider. It didn’t seem like him to just...shut Richie out. All day he’d been oh so obviously hanging on every bit of Richie’s attention. He practically blushed any time Richie talked to him at all. Why would he want to separate himself? To make sure none of Richie’s friends saw it, too?

“Did you see what I mean though, Bev?” Richie asked, gesturing to the divider and grinning at her.

“Definitely a dyed blond. But he’s cute.” She smiled, but there was still something behind it, like she didn’t trust him. 

“Does he live with his mother?” Bill asked, a small chuckle coming through in his voice that only grew louder when Richie told him yes. 

“Does he have asthma?” Ben asked. It was one question after another, then they faded back into their usual banter about other things. 

Still, Richie kept looking to the divider, wondering if Eddie were just nervous around so many people or if that was just limo driver etiquette. 

And then, once they’d arrived at the restaurant and Eddie was letting them out of the car, Richie noticed something else—something more concerning than the black divider. Eddie wouldn’t lift his head as he bid them each a good evening as they exited the car. He wouldn’t look at Richie, and as soon as he could manage it, he’d closed the limo door with a loud, uncharacteristic bang, and hurried around to the front of the car like a man on the run. Richie was honestly surprised he didn’t slide across the hood to reach the other side faster. And, as he opened the door without even offering the friendly wave he’d given at every stop all day, Richie noticed the tears on his cheeks in the moment before he disappeared into the driver’s seat.

“You coming?” Bill asked, he and Ben already waiting at the door to the restaurant while Beverly remained at Richie’s side.

“Was he...”

“Yeah. I think he was crying,” Richie finished while he and Bev stared off at the car as it pulled away. “Wish I knew what the hell that was about.”

“Maybe he got some bad news. Someone texted him or something… Come on. Let’s go in.” She rubbed his arm and then clapped him on the shoulder before starting toward the restaurant. 

Richie stared at the street a moment longer, even after another car pulled up. 

Eddie hadn’t checked his phone. His phone was never anywhere to be seen any time he was driving...though Richie guessed it was possible the limo had some messaging app built into the dash or something that the towncar didn’t have. 

It was hard to even enjoy his dinner with that thought in the back of his mind. He couldn’t get it out of his head… Those tear stains on his pale, crumpled face. Eddie always looked worried about something, but this was something else all together. This was just _bad._

Richie had a nice tumbler of good whiskey in front of him and hadn’t touched it. He had an appetizer he’d deconstructed without really eating on his plate, then his main course. Of that, he ate maybe two or three bites, feeling something off in his stomach that had nothing to do with the quality of the food or pre-show jitters. 

Eddie was upset and somehow he _knew_ it was something they’d done. He felt disappointment being thrust on him from every angle—yet none of his friends seemed to have thought about their driver a single time since they left the car. 

The turtle, he thought. The _turtle_ is disappointed.

It was a weird, heavy thought. He’d hardly thought about his nightmare expect when he felt compelled to say yes to whatever curve ball the day threw at him in his effort to—

“Keep an open mind,” Richie said, staring at his plate without seeing it.

“What’s that?” Bill asked, still laughing from some joke that had been said.

“Nothing,” Richie answered, shaking his head. They wouldn’t get it. They’d laugh at him for all the wrong reasons and he wasn’t in the mood for that now. Right now, he was having a fucking existential crisis and he wanted to hurry up and get the check and text Eddie to tell him to come pick them up early. 

“You look like shit. Did they poison your whiskey?” Bill pressed. He had real concern on his face, but it did little to remedy the sick feeling Richie had in the pit of his stomach.

“No, it’s… Whatever. It’s nothing. Did someone say dessert?”

“Dessert? You haven’t even touched your steak. What’s the matter?” Beverly asked, leaning over to squeeze his arm. 

“If I told you, you’d think I’m crazy. Let’s just eat. It’s nothing.” 

“Richie, what is it?” Beverly pushed. “We’ve all seen a lot of things that would make people think we’re crazy. Whatever it is, you can tell us.”

“Yeah, Trashmouth. We’re the last people on Earth who are going to judge you. So come on. Out with it,” Bill said, making a ‘get on with it’ gesture with the hand not holding his fork. 

“I… I fucked all of your mothers. Even yours.” He looked at Bev who had one eyebrow cocked in disdain. The looks he was getting from his friends made it clear they weren’t having it either. “Fine, but it’s a weird fucking story—and I already know it sounds crazy so I don’t need you to remind me.”

“We won’t think you’re crazy,” Ben said, setting down his fork and wiping his mouth on his napkin as if to show Richie had his full attention—which somehow left Richie feeling even more ill at ease.

Nonetheless, he told them about the turtle, about the cough syrup and the sickness and how he’d fallen and hit his head. He did his best to describe how real it all felt, how the voice of that turtle still felt like it resonated somewhere inside his chest like a second set of instincts. 

“The space turtle told me that what I wanted couldn’t happen—or that it couldn’t happen how I’d _wanted_ it to and I needed to keep an open mind. I… Before today, I didn’t know what the fuck it was talking about. Figured it was just my subconscious or something trying to tell me to try new shit or—or move on or something. But… I don’t know. It’s _weird._ I _didn’t_ know what it meant, but now…now I think I do. And—And I don’t know if I _can_ keep an open mind about it without going batshit fucking crazy.”

“What was it you wanted?” Beverly asked, her hand still squeezing his arm. No one looked ready to call the men in white coats yet, but they would.

Oh, _boy_ would they…

“Eddie,” he said, looking at the table. “I wanted Eddie. And—”

“Rich… That guy’s got his name, but he’s not—”

“Didn’t any of you guys feel it?” Richie asked, interrupting Bill before he could state the obvious. He lifted his head to look at them, and watched the introspective looks cross their faces. Ben was looking at his palm, where a scar should be but no longer was. “It didn’t hit me, but the longer I’m around him, I _feel_ something. I feel like I know this guy—”

“I felt it, too,” Beverly said, her hand retreating to her own side of the table. “And I think he might’ve felt it. When our eyes met, I thought, ‘I’ve seen this man before.’ And he looked at me just the same. Well,” she paused to smile a little bit and laugh, “until he got nervous and looked back at you.” 

Whatever that exchange was, Richie was sorry he’d missed it.

“What if… What if—well, saying that the turtle _was_ real, assuming that it’s not all just a bad trip you had… What if that _is_ Eddie? Just...not the one we knew?” Ben asked, still tracing the invisible line on his hand. 

“What, like from another dimension?” Bill asked, still appearing skeptical. 

“Isn’t that where _It_ came from? Another realm? Another time and space? Maybe… Maybe _It_ and this turtle are one in the same. Maybe It was like the devil—just as an example—and the turtle is a god. It could do all sorts of things—make us see stuff that wasn’t there, control things that It willed into existence. Maybe the turtle’s the same. Maybe it...maybe it—”

“Willed the wrong Eddie Kaspbrak into New York City?” Bill asked, though it almost sounded like more of a statement. 

“He talks like he’s from somewhere else,” Richie said. “I thought he was just over polite, but...he doesn’t talk like anyone I’ve met on the road. He talks like some dandy out of an old Western movie.”

“If he’s from the Old West, how would he be driving a car?” Bill asked.

“I don’t know. He said he got in a pretty nasty accident recently. Maybe he just picked it up.”

“Maybe he’s from the fifties,” Beverly suggested. “All dapper and polite—I could see it.”

“Okay, but if we’re running with the assumption that God the Space Turtle brought Eddie back to life,” Bill asked, his brow furrowed but more so with confusion than anger, “why did it take all that effort to bring one from another realm completely? I mean, if he picked this one from the fifties, he’d be in his seventies by now, right? How would it convince him that one day it’s ‘52 and all of a sudden we’re in the 2000s? Why not just bring the _right_ Eddie Kaspbrak back to life? If it’s God—”

“Maybe because It killed him. Maybe the turtle can’t undo what It did,” Ben offered.

“So why bring Eddie back at all? I mean, what the hell’s the point? He’s not _our friend._ We don’t know this guy! We didn’t fight Pennywise with some guy from the fifties.” They debated back and forth, Bill and Ben, while Richie stared at his plate.

What was it the turtle had said? That what he wanted couldn’t come to pass… That what he wanted was ‘unobtainable.’ That was the word he’d used. How could the deity drag a person from one universe to the next and make them fit right in, but not bring one back from the dead? Unless that realm where it was still in the fifties was running parallel alongside theirs, Bill was right—this guy would be in his seventies. And, oh God! How old would his mother be if she was pulled over, too?

“The point I’m making is why even bring him here? He’s not our friend, he’ll never be our friend—for Christ’s sake, he’s a limo driver. Eddie would rather die than have strangers locked in a car with him all day!” Bill was carrying on in the argument with Ben, and Beverly was staring at Richie.

She was staring at him like she knew something, and the look on her face had Richie realizing it, too. He slumped back in his seat and found himself not sure whether he needed to knock back all his whiskey at once or go to the bathroom and puke—or maybe both.

 _Fuck_ that turtle. Seriously. If it thought it was helping, it was doing a real shitty job.

Oh, hey, space turtle, I was in love with my childhood friend, but he was straight and he died. 

Oh, hey, human. I’m really sorry about that. Have this gay one from the fifties. That fixes it, right?

“How does it help _us_ if it’s not our friend—”

“Guys, it’s not about you. It was _never_ about us, about the Losers. It was about me,” Richie said, grabbing his whiskey and knocking it back. “It was my dream,” he said with a grimace at the burn in his throat. “I wanted _Eddie._ I… Fuck. I—if you all fucking laugh at me, you can walk yourselves home ‘cause I’ll call every cab company in the city and tell them you’re bank robbers or something.”

“No one’s going to laugh at you,” Beverly said. She looked so grave and serious, but it didn’t reassure him at all.

“I carved our initials in the kissing bridge. I-I had a thing for him ever since we were kids. All it’s been since Derry is nightmares about what happened—or stupid dreams where I can play hero and things turn out better. But it was _never_ going to end like that. He wasn’t like me. Sometimes, I’d even have dreams where he found out and...fuck. Whatever. Our Eddie was married—to his mother, but, you know, still a woman. The stupid fucking turtle thinks it’s helping because it gave me _Eddie._ It’s just… _Not_ Eddie.”

“Why would it think that would help?” Bill asked, stammering for a moment as he fought to process what he’d heard. The last of Richie’s whiskey was gone and so was Beverly’s cocktail—because he’d stolen it. That wasn’t a secret he’d ever wanted his friends to know. They could know he was gay, he didn’t care, but they didn’t need to know about Eddie… 

“I don’t know. It doesn’t fucking understand human things. It didn’t even know what a genie was. It probably thinks people are interchangeable like fucking lightbulbs or something.”

“Well, if the look he gave you was anything to go off of, this Eddie at least likes you back,” Beverly said, her tone matter-of-fact though her expression almost playful. 

It gave Richie butterflies at the same time that it made him sick. It _was_ sick. That wasn’t Eddie! That was just...some driver who had the same name. Why couldn’t the turtle have just given him a random stranger that he fell in love with all the same? Why—

“Do you think this Eddie knows anything about Pennywise?” Bill asked. “Like maybe he survived it.”

“But Pennywise was in our realm. Unless there’s...there’s more,” Ben offered.

“It’s like the turtle isn’t It? Everywhere and nowhere.”

“Schrodinger’s Clown,” Richie said.

“So It… It might not even be dead. It could just be living somewhere else,” Ben said.

“As long as It’s dead in this realm, that’s good enough for me,” Bill answered, shaking his head before knocking back what was left of his drink. “We need to get this guy talking.”

That was the general consensus, and yet when they left the restaurant, the car waiting for them was the same, but not the driver. Richie froze when the gray-haired man addressed him, thinking that the turtle had decided he was ungrateful and just plopped Blond Eddie back where he came from. 

“Good evening, Mr. Tozier. We’ll be right on time for your appearance tonight,” the man said, holding open the door and ignoring the looks he was getting.

“Who are you?” Richie snapped.

“Rich,” Bill whispered, clapping him on the shoulder in warning before sliding into the limousine.

“You can call me Joey, sir. I’ll be your driver for the remainder of your evening.” He looked smug, like he’d gotten away with something. Was _he_ the reason Eddie had driven off in tears before? Because someone else in the company took over his ride? But if Eddie was the owner like he said, how was that even possible?

“Where’s Eddie?” Richie asked, almost ready to walk off down the street and take an Uber. He didn’t _like_ this guy.

“Mr. Kaspbrak took ill quite suddenly. It happens quite a bit. But I assure you, Mr. Tozier, I can get you there just as well. If you’d like to take a seat.” 

The fucker was _glaring_ at him! That’s what it was! He was glaring and smiling to try covering it up. 

“Did he say Eddie got sick?” Bill asked once Richie was unhappily in the limo and the door had been closed. This driver had the divider up already—or still up from when Eddie had closed it.

“Yeah,” Richie answered.

“And it happens a lot.”

“That’s what the man said,” Richie mumbled.

“It’s fucking Eddie 2.0,” Bill said, clapping his hands against his thighs. 

Richie, against his better judgment—and probably with the aid of the alcohol in his blood—started texting Eddie’s number.

_Rating 0/5. Promised Eddie K all day. Got Al Capone’s Cousin instead._  
_JK. Hope you feel better soon. I noticed you weren’t looking too hot when you dropped us off._

Then, after saying goodbye to his friends who had to go wait around at the event bar or the VIP box while he was ushered around backstage, Richie decided to bite the bullet.

If the turtle told him to keep an open mind, maybe it made Eddie do the same. And, if not—if it all went to shit—at least Richie could say he tried.

And, if not, he would probably only get his number blocked and his contract with this car service terminated without notice.

_I mean...you WERE._  
_Looking hot._  
_This is me hitting on you. I’m bad at it. Obviously…_  
_I don’t know why I’m throwing out lines here. You’re the one supposed to pick ME up._  
_Get it? Cause pickup lines?_  
_Can I just go back and ask for the escort service?_  
_I hope you didn’t die. I KNEW you were having a heart attack._

All the while, over the course of the next four hours while Richie sent unanswered texts to Eddie’s phone, he complained to Steve about the second driver.

“I didn’t like him. Guy gave me filthy looks.”

“Well, did you say something rude?” Steve asked. He seemed baffled by the fact Richie had even taken an interest in who drove him around in the first place.

“I asked him where Eddie was. I want Eddie to be my driver. You call that company, Steve, and you tell them I want my driver back by tomorrow. You’re the one who made me go with these people.”

“Does it really matter who drives? Why are you being a diva?” Steve asked, picking a piece of lint off the sleeve of Richie’s jacket as he readied him to go on stage.

“I want Eddie. Don’t take no for an answer.”

“If he’s sick, why would you _want_ him? You can’t get _sick_ again, Rich.”

“I want my driver, Steve. You’re the one who wouldn’t let me take random Ubers anymore.” 

He played hardball up until he was on stage, then did the job he was paid to do, and then immediately went back to bugging Steve who said the car service could make no promises. 

Unbeknownst to him, his friends arranged for their own cabs to get home, leaving Richie stuck with the sour-faced driver who seemed more than slightly pissed off when Richie knocked on the divider until he put it down.

“A change in route, sir?” He asked.

“No, I wanted to ask you something.”

The man sighed and his grip tightened on the wheel, like Richie’s very presence was an inconvenience to him. Talk about 0/10 on customer service.

“Eddie warned me you liked to talk. What is it?”

“He talked to you?” Richie asked.

“Yes. When he called and asked me to pick up the route.”

“What else did he say about me?” 

“That you needed picked up from the restaurant and he communicated his route to me.”

“But did—”

“I’m not talking to you about Eddie,” he said, finally looking back over his shoulder to pass Richie a look of pure rage—no smile to soften it this time. He looked like a mafioso and Richie had the vague thought that he’d end up dead in a ditch if he kept running his mouth—but he was Richie fucking Tozier. Talking was all he knew how to do. 

“Look, if I did something—”

“You need to leave Eddie alone. Just because you’re the famous prick who hired him doesn’t mean you have any right to parade him around in front of your friends to make fun of him. Yeah, he’s a self-conscious dweeb, but that’s my _boss,_ alright? And more than my boss, he’s my friend. And I’m not letting any more rich pricks like you make him the butt of their jokes. I don’t _care_ if we lose your business. Quite frankly, Mr. Tozier, we’d do better without it.”

Richie tried to interject and defend himself, but the man spoke over him until he’d reached the end of his rant—staying firm and stoic as he dolled out each accusation. 

“I—I never meant to make _fun_ of him. I wanted my friends to see him, yeah, but not to make him the butt of a joke. Why would you even think that?”

“Oh, you weren’t?”

“No!”

“So he was mistaken, then, when he overheard you all making quips about him? Definitely a dyed blond? Definitely still at home with his mother? These cars give the illusion of privacy, Mr. Tozier, but I assure you they’re not all soundproof.” He looked over his shoulder again to fix Richie with another dirty look.

“Then what’s with the intercom?” Richie asked, gesturing to the little button beneath the divider.

“To make your voice clearer. And to give the illusion that we can’t hear a thing.”

“Clearer? You said _clearer._ So that means he misheard—”

“Misheard you talking about him? Making fun of him? I don’t think so, Mr. Tozier. Whatever act this is, you can let it go. I ask, out of professional courtesy, that you leave Mr. Kaspbrak alone. You’ve done quite enough.”

“Look, it wasn’t like that—you don’t understand. Eddie—he doesn’t understand.”

“He doesn’t understand you and your celebrity friends laughing at him for taking care of his mother? The woman is ill!”

“It’s not _like_ that, okay?” Richie shouted. His heart felt like it was pounding out of his chest. No wonder Eddie had been in tears when he dropped them at the restaurant. No wonder he took himself off the account or refused to answer Richie’s ten thousand texts. He thought they’d been laughing at him, not understanding at all that it wasn’t _him_ who was funny but the situation… The situation he knew nothing about. 

Unless he, too, had spoken to the turtle.

And Richie wasn’t about to try explaining the turtle to this guy.

“Look, my friends and I...we had a friend. A really good friend. His name was Eddie Kaspbrak. He was an analyst for some company here in the city. I’m not making this up. He had the same name. If you ask Eddie—your Eddie—he’d tell you. All day, I kept asking to make sure I was hearing it right. Our Eddie, he died, alright? He died a couple years back and… Eddie kind of reminds me of him in a way. Not a whole lot, but Eddie was a momma’s boy and, yeah, we were laughing back here about it, but not at Eddie. Not at _your_ Eddie. Fuck… It wasn’t like that. You’ve gotta tell him it wasn’t like that.”

“I’m not telling Eddie anything. And I advise that you’re prepared for alternate transportation in the morning. Because I’m not driving you either.”

Richie rolled his eyes and slumped back in his seat. He felt defeated, like he’d been given an opportunity and blew it. 

All the looks his friends had given Eddie—Bill thinking he was some kind of con, Ben looking doubtful, Bev looking confused. He’d thought all of that was directed at him because...because Richie had told them something bad about him. Eddie was so anxious about every little thing—from his empty coffee cup to his turtleneck. Of course he’d thought they were making fun of him. 

He had to make things right, but how? 

All those stupid texts he’d been sending all night only made things look even worse. 

Once he was back in his hotel room, having to open the door for himself to get out of the limo, Richie sat on his bed and stared at the unanswered texts. The guy probably thought his messages were just another ploy to make him the butt of some cruel prank. If Beverly was right and Eddie had been liking him back, Richie had definitely just squandered that opportunity. 

So much for the turtle’s help. Unless…

Richie typed one last message, feeling no more hopeful than he had before. 

_Hey I just realized what happened. I am so sorry. We never meant to make you feel that way. If you give me the chance I’ll explain everything. I’m sorry I didn’t notice you were feeling put down. I am_

and instead of the word slow, he inserted the emoji of a bright green turtle.

If Eddie was who Richie thought he was, he’d understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! More soon! I promise I won't keep Eddie broken for (too) long!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mood of this chapter changes so much, you're gonna get whiplash. Whoops. Enjoy!

Eddie sat huddled against the wall in his bedroom, plate of barely eaten food set aside with an untouched glass of water. He hadn’t even taken the medications he was supposed to with his sparse bites of food, feeling too far gone in his thoughts to bother.

That and he didn’t want to risk opening the door and attracting more of his mother’s attention. She’d already succeeded in making him feel worse once tonight. He didn’t need to go and give her an opportunity to do it again.

By his plate, his cell phone lay on the floor. It lit up now and then, mostly texts from Mr. Tozier peppered with ones from Joey and a couple other drivers signing off for the evening. Whatever Mr. Tozier was sending him, Eddie refused to look. He _couldn’t._ In the back of his mind, he just heard the man and all his friends laughing—laughing at _him._ Even that remarkable, beautiful woman with the ember-colored hair and sweet eyes had _laughed_ at him.

Eddie’s fingers were subconsciously twisting, pulling, a lock of his hair. A dyed blond, she’d said—and they all had themselves a good chuck at his expense. He touched up his hair, it was true, but his light brown hair had turned a sandy blond sometime in his early thirties, speckled with grays from what his mother insisted was poor health but was more likely the result of her stressing him out. Blond hid the whites and grays better when they sprouted up. 

They made fun of him for his mother, for his clothes, for his _asthma._ He didn’t even know how Mr. Tozier found out about it, either. He hadn’t needed his inhaler their whole time together. 

The whole drive to the restaurant, Eddie had been in pure agony. His chest hurt, his heart hurt—all of him just ached until he couldn’t help but to cry. He was sure Mr. Tozier and his friends had a good laugh about that, too. Not that he stuck around to see. 

He’d spent all day lulled into this stupid sense of familiarity and comfort, only to be shot through the heart as he always was. Eddie Kaspbrak didn’t have friends. If you asked his mother, he didn’t _need_ friends. All he needed was her...and boy did he _wish_ that was true. 

Eddie would give anything in the world to have all he needed right here at home. He wished he didn’t see couples walking arm in arm and get jealous. He wished he didn’t feel a despair so great he was nearly in tears every time he came home to find his mother watching some romance film on TV. He wished he didn’t meet people and wish to see them again, to know them and have them know him, too. He wished he didn’t want to go to the bar with Joey and the guys and want to meet someone special so much that it made him crazy.

He wished he weren’t so desperate and depraved that a man like Mr. Tozier had somehow won his heart like a carnival prize after only a few hours. 

There’d been this moment, this very _real_ moment, when he’d looked at all of Mr. Tozier’s friends and saw himself as one of them. He felt complete for a moment after feeling so disconnected since the accident. He wanted to be a part of their group—he wanted it like a little kid in a new school wanted a table of friends to sit with. Most people grew out of their awkward, bumbling adolescence, though...just not him. 

No, he was still that same timid, nerdy, girly-boy and it was _no wonder_ beautiful people like Mr. Tozier and his friends had laughed at him.

Eddie could just count his blessings that Joey had agreed to pick up the route so Mr. Tozier couldn’t get any more information to use against him.

Hours passed and Eddie tried to get himself to stand, to take his plate downstairs, to take his medicine and go to bed. Still, around the time Mr. Tozier’s show was slated to be over and then by the time he should be back at his hotel, Eddie was awake and in the same place as before—still worrying a lock of his hair. He worried he’d give himself a bald patch by accidentally ripping out the hairs, but then wondered so what if he did? So what if he started to make himself look like a mangy dog? That’s what Mr. Tozier called him anyway, right? In the back of the limo...a golden poodle or something. 

His phone lit up again, but this time it was a call from Joey and Eddie thought it’d be best if he answered. Something could’ve gone wrong. There might’ve been an accident or an issue with the car. He was upset, but he couldn’t leave his only friend and best driver stranded.

“Hello?” He did his best to disguise the fact that he was still crying, embarrassed that Joey had even seen him so worked up in the first place.

“I dropped him off. You were right. Guy doesn’t know how to stop running his mouth.”

“Thanks, Joey. I-I really owe you one,” Eddie said, straightening up a little against the wall. It was late, but would Joey come over if he asked? He wasn’t up for much company, but it’d be nice not to be so...alone. 

“Don’t mention it, Eddie. Look, I think it’d be best if we drop that account. We don’t need customers like him detracting from our business. Plus, if we cut ties first, it looks even better. Shows he’s the problem.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I think you’re right. Hey, Joey… Do you think you could—”

“Anyway, I’m dropping off the car now and I’m getting home. I need a strong drink after dealing with that asshole all night.”

“Right… Well—Well have a good night. I really do owe you one. Maybe...Maybe I could get you a round of drinks at the bar next time.”

“Sure, Eddie. Get some sleep. And don’t let me find out you went driving that prick around in the morning. I’ll thump your skull a good one if you do. Cut our losses and email him a cancellation notice first thing in the morning.”

“Right. Well, goodnight then,” Eddie said, feeling his already broken heart sink further. Joey might not have meant it, but it sure felt an awful lot like he didn’t want to go to the bar with him again after the daiquiri incident.

Eddie stared at his phone after the call ended, looking at the number of messages at the top of the screen before it went black and reflected his own sad face back at him. Where did he get off thinking he had any capacity to make friends? 

While he was looking at the phone, it lit up again with yet another message from Mr. Tozier. Eddie sighed and let the screen go black again before deciding it couldn’t hurt any worse to read the message and at least notify Mr. Tozier, from a business standpoint, that their contract together was canceled. 

One glance at the message and Eddie nearly dropped the phone from his hand. 

Turtle… The _turtle._ It had to be a coincidence, but…but it didn’t _feel_ like it. Eddie felt that tightness in his chest again, and the static at the back of his mind. The turtle… But if Mr. Tozier was sent by the turtle, then how could he have been so _cruel?_ Eddie had been as nice and polite to him as he could all day, and Mr. Tozier had laughed at him with his friends. How could that ever turn into the love that the turtle from his dream promised him?

Slowly, Eddie scrolled through the messages Mr. Tozier had sent him—lingering a bit too long on the one where the man outright admitted to flirting with him. Eddie knew he’d heard what he had—he didn’t imagine Mr. Tozier and his friends bullying him—but the man seemed so unaware, like he genuinely didn’t mean any harm by it. 

He was so confused it made him sick to his stomach. He wanted to text the cancellation, but the static in his brain wouldn’t let him. Eddie so desperately wanted to be optimistic, but what good would come of it? He’d get his hopes up and Mr. Tozier would laugh at him all over again.

Or… Or maybe he really was sorry and had a good excuse. Mr. Tozier was a comedian after all… Wasn’t it his job to make everyone and everything the butt of his jokes? 

Against his better judgment, and against the advice his mother and Joey had given him, Eddie texted one reply to Mr. Tozier before turning off his phone and forcing himself to stand. He cleaned up his plate and glass, took his medicine, and set his alarm before changing into pajamas and readying himself for bed. 

_No worries Mr. Tozier. Your car will be waiting at the hotel for you tomorrow afternoon._ He’d wanted to add a short, cordial “goodnight,” but didn’t allow himself. Eddie wasn’t even so sure that he’d be the one to go and pick up Mr. Tozier for his lunch meeting. 

Well, he was...but for the sake of his own sanity, he would pretend for the evening that he was not.

In the morning, he awoke early and ate his breakfast while denying it any time his mother asked if he would be driving “that awful man” again today. After a quick shower and shave, and a few dabs of his cologne, Eddie turned on his phone to see several missed calls from Mr. Tozier’s manager as well as a few emails and a text from Mr. Tozier himself. 

Eddie called Mr. Tozier’s manager back while on his way to the lot where his cars were kept. It seemed Mr. Tozier had a busy night of giving everyone headaches, claiming he wouldn’t let anyone drive him expect Eddie himself. 

“He was acting like a diva. I’ll be straight with you here. He was being a real dick about it. He said your other driver gave him dirty looks and he wants to file a grievance if you don’t drive him today.”

“Well, I already spoke to Mr. Tozier last night and this morning,” Eddie said, fibbing just a little. “I don’t really understand his confusion, but he can rest assured that I’ll be driving him this afternoon. Was there a place he needed taken this morning? The itinerary we were given showed his first appointment at half past eleven.”

Mr. Tozier’s manager rushed him off the phone after confirming there were no additional appointments this morning, seeming annoyed that Mr. Tozier had sent him on a wild goose chase since he and Eddie had already “spoken.”

If half a dozen unanswered text messages since six in the morning could be considered speaking. Eddie busied himself around the city, killing time anywhere but at home. For a while, he hung around in the backseat of the towncar going through business emails while parked on the top tier of a parking deck. 

Mr. Tozier kept texting him things, much like he had the night before, like “I really am so SO sorry” and “I hope I can make things right.” Maybe it was a little mean, but Eddie felt no guilt at all making the other man stew in his nerves for the morning.

When it came time to pick Mr. Tozier up, though, Eddie was sure to be early and waiting in the lobby as he had the day before. He had two very angry texts from Joey and an unanswered call that were secretly churning his guts, but he kept the look off his face when Mr. Tozier burst into view. He had practically spilled from the elevator and if Eddie didn’t know better, he’d think someone were chasing the man. 

“Oh, thank _fuck,_ Eds! I thought for sure you were gonna send the mafia man—nice shirt!” 

Eddie, out of habit, looked down to see what was wrong with the shirt he’d picked out. It was a soft blue and white striped button down, with his red paisley tie that he kept tucked into his beige vest, matching his trousers. It was exactly the kind of shirt Mr. Tozier had said he’d hated the day before. 

“Oh… Um—Well, thank you for that, Mr. Tozier. I’ll go and get the car for you.” Only when Eddie tried to leave, Mr. Tozier followed him step for step.

“Eddie, I really, really am sorry about last night. We never meant—”

“That’s quite alright, Mr. Tozier. I just wasn’t feeling well. I’m sorry to hear Joey wasn’t up to your standards, sir.” It would be a lie to say he wasn’t sweating a bit as he opened the back door for Mr. Tozier to get in the car where it was parked...in a spot in the small hotel lot and not out front like a respectable client. Eddie started to feel even worse, if that really was the word for it, when Mr. Tozier began leaning into the front seat as he himself got into the driver’s seat. “Despite our usual traffic, we’ll be on time for your—”

“Eddie, you have to let me explain. I know we all came off like a bunch of pricks and I’m _sorry._ I am so sorry. And...and all that texting last night. Shit, I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Quite alright, sir,” Eddie said, trying to keep the nervous smile off his face in fear he’d look condescending. “I imagine there was quite the after show celebration. Mr. Pacino always knew how to tear up after a ceremony.”

“You drove for Al Pacino!?”

Eddie thought for a moment that he’d gotten Mr. Tozier off topic enough to keep him distracted for the rest of the drive, but instead he was left horrified as the man started worming his way into the front seat—climbing over the center console and almost hitting Eddie in the face as he came tumbling through while they stopped at a red light. 

“Mr. Tozier, please! I-I need you to remain seated!” His heart was pounding about ten beats per second as the man fastened himself into the passenger seat—a seat no client should ever be in at all! From here, he could smell the other man’s cologne mixed with the sharp scent of aftershave. It was a scent that was so distinctly male, and yet it had Eddie’s knees going weak despite the fact he was already sitting down.

He thought of that little green turtle Mr. Tozier had sent the night before. 

He thought about the promise the turtle had made him.

And he glanced at Mr. Tozier once out of the corner of his eye before starting to go through the intersection after the light changed and almost passed out. So deep and blue, like the swirling cosmos he’d seen in that wonderful, terrible dream. 

“Look, my friends and I were assholes. It’s a lot to explain, but you’ve gotta let me try—”

“I told you, Mr. Tozier. It’s really quite alright. I was just feeling under the weather so I asked Joey to step in—”

“But I _know_ that’s not true,” Mr. Tozier said, placing his warm—burning hot—hand on Eddie’s arm. Apart from the pats on the shoulder and that awful play-punching the man had done to leave bruises on his arm yesterday, it was the first time they’d touched—a lingering touch. “Listen, the—the dyed blond thing, that’s because I was texting Beverly about you earlier in the day. I was telling her what you looked like and I couldn’t tell if, you know, the carpet matched the drapes.”

“I beg your pardon!?” Eddie said, his face turning red so fast he was surprised he didn’t black out entirely. He was left clutching for his inhaler and trying not to let his frazzled state affect his driving. 

“Sorry,” Mr. Tozier said, looking not even the least bit sorry as he retracted his hand from Eddie’s arm where it had been...it had been soothing him, rubbing gently up and down, as he’d gotten his breathing under control. 

“If it’s all the same to you, my hair is naturally this color. I touch it up from time to time to hide the grays. As I’m sure you do with yours.” He tried to inject some sternness into his voice, but it stalled on his tongue as he saw the little grin the man was giving him.

It was so _unfair._ Mr. Tozier made a mess of him and Eddie could do nothing to retaliate at all.

“Gray hair, huh? You don’t look a day over twenty.”

“Now, that’s quite enough. I-I told you I’d drive you this morning, Mr. Tozier, but I didn’t agree to—”

“What, the escort service?”

Eddie felt his cheeks growing hot again and he held his tongue. He wasn’t going to win in a battle of quips with this man. 

“Look, I just want you to know we weren’t making fun. I know it sounded a hell of a lot like we were and that’s my fault. I should’ve known better, I just… I spent all day excited for them to meet you. I like you. I like your fluffy hair—” He tried to touch it and Eddie slapped him away, trying desperately to focus on the road while his stomach fluttered with butterflies. No one but his mother had ever...touched his hair with such intent before. Except for boyhood noogies or bullies using it to drag him around. “—and your big brown eyes. I was telling Beverly you’re so adorable it reminds me of a Golden Doodle.”

“I have no idea what that is, Mr. Tozier,” Eddie said, swallowing hard. Mr. Tozier was leaning in close to him and Eddie had the very real fear that the man was going to do more than tease him or touch his arm. He could very well have opened himself up to an assault letting Mr. Tozier into his car this morning—assuming, of course, that he himself wasn’t willingly falling into the snare. 

He _shouldn’t!_ Oh, he knew he shouldn’t, but Eddie was watching the road with only a third of his attention—the rest torn between what Mr. Tozier was doing to him and what he _hoped_ the man might do next. Eddie didn’t think he’d ever been so attracted to anyone before, except maybe the ember-haired woman Mr. Tozier was friends with. Why, Eddie wouldn’t mind it at all if she got this close to him either—not that a woman like her ever would. And who cared if she would, really, because Mr. Tozier certainly _was._

“Golden Doodle? They’re a dog breed—big, cute, curly things,” he said, fluffing all of Eddie’s hair with one stroke across the scalp with his long, deft fingers. It sent tingles all over and Eddie was thankful they were at another red light because he would’ve wrecked for sure if they were moving. He was explaining more about this breed of awkwardly adorable dog, but all Eddie could focus on were the goosebumps on his neck and the places where his hair was standing on end and now out of place. 

He didn’t adjust it himself, leaving the strands in a frayed clump of messed up curls, in hopes that Mr. Tozier might do it for him. And Mr. Tozier certainly did. 

“I probably shouldn’t fuck with you while you’re driving,” Mr. Tozier said, once Eddie’s hair was somewhat how it had been. He kept his hands to himself the rest of the drive, and Eddie was still a slightly trembling mess as he bid Mr. Tozier farewell, reminding him that he’d be back to pick him up a little after two o’clock for his appointment at the radio station.

Eddie parked the car a few blocks away and took himself to get coffee, forcing himself not to buy anything for Mr. Tozier while he waited and got himself under control. His fingers were constantly raking through his hair, the hair Mr. Tozier had touched, as he read through emails on his phone—and ignored the angry texts from Joey.

On the ride from the radio station to a different cafe where Mr. Tozier was to have an interview with some magazine, the man behaved himself. He seemed to have gotten whatever it was out of his system and rode in the backseat as he was meant to and didn’t touch Eddie again except to pat his shoulder when Eddie let him in and out of the car. He continued to tell his apologies and explanations no matter how many times Eddie insisted it was all alright and all forgiven, and Eddie honestly couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not.

It left him flustered and frazzled as he waited around picking at a bowl of pasta for lunch in a restaurant down the street from where Mr. Tozier was being interviewed. He had a gnawing feeling that he was doing something wrong, but the static in his brain told him to run with it anyway. Joey continued to text him his disappointment, and Eddie continued to leave the texts unread. His only relief was in knowing his mother couldn’t text to scold him as well.

He _wanted_ to believe Mr. Tozier. He wanted to let himself think that they hadn’t been making fun of him, that it was all a misunderstanding like the man had said. It was hard to believe, but oh so tempting. 

After his interview with the magazine, Eddie drove him to another photoshoot—something Mr. Tozier seemed quite frankly fed up with.

“I’m not a supermodel, man. I don’t know what they want from me. And, like, the thing of it is, too—they waste hours of my life taking all these pictures and then slap in two of them. The rest never even get seen!”

“I do understand how that could be frustrating for you, Mr. Tozier,” Eddie said, offering him a sincere smile through the rear view mirror.

“It _is_ frustrating! Like, you’ve seen my face, Eds. No one needs five hundred photographs of it. I don’t see why I can’t just send them a selfie and call it a day.”

“I don’t know much about photoshoots, but I do think that would be a lot nicer. I had a couple of photos taken for the newspaper once, for my business, you know? But that was years ago… And it was all over very fast. I don’t think anyone really wants to see a photo of me, either. I wanted to have Joey stand in for me but he wouldn’t do it. He said I needed to get over my shyness...”

“That’s a nice way for him to say he’s so ugly he’d scare off all the customers,” Mr. Tozier muttered.

“I do apologize if he was rude to you yesterday. There really must’ve bee a misunderstanding.”

“Uh-huh… Sure, Eds,” Mr. Tozier said, smiling at him through the mirror. 

“Well, I do hope you’re able to make the most of it, sir. I know it’s probably exhausting having to go all these places. Is it like that in every city visit?”

“No… Just the big ones.” He smirked then and it made Eddie’s face grow hot. 

“I-I hope it’s not too horrible, Mr. Tozier. I-It’s your last stop of the day at least.” 

“Yeah, that’s true. Thank fuck. I’m exhausted. Barely slept at all last night.” He rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses and flopped back in his seat like he might try to nap with only four blocks to go. 

“I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully tonight goes better for you.”

“It could,” Mr. Tozier said, sitting upright again and smirking that nerve-wracking smirk. 

He was being so brash, not at all subtle as he’d tried to be earlier the previous day. Eddie didn’t know if he’d done something to spur it or...or if the turtle was at work. He himself had never felt so out of control near another person and his heart was nearly beating out of his chest when he let Mr. Tozier out of the car.

Eddie stared after him, still feeling the phantom of the other man’s hand on his shoulder through his sweater-vest and shirt. He watched the way Mr. Tozier moved, how he fit his hands in the pocket of his sports jacket as though he were nervous as he approached the building.

Suddenly realizing he could be caught staring at any moment, Eddie hurried back into the car and drove off to find a place he could park and wait. What a fool he was for letting his mind wander like that! Why, he may as well have taken a photo of Mr. Tozier’s back as he walked—it would’ve lasted longer, and he was sure Mr. Tozier would say so himself!

Eddie scolded himself in between puffs from his aspirator as he waited for the clock to roll over to a quarter to six. Once it had, he began his slow journey back to the building—back to Mr. Tozier who appeared to have freshly washed his face to get rid of whatever makeup may have been put on him by the staff. 

“Ah, it looks as though you survived, Mr. Tozier,” Eddie said, trying to joke as he let the man into the car. He wasn’t much good at it all, though Mr. Tozier chuckled for him, and he knew he ought to leave it up to the pro. “It looks like that’s all we had for you on the itinerary. Do you have any plans for dinner this evening, sir?” 

Eddie had all of three seconds to realize his mistake in wording as Mr. Tozier started to smile at him—almost maliciously—from the backseat.

“Is that an invite?” Mr. Tozier asked, his grin so wicked it made Eddie dizzy. “I was worried you canceled my Date Night level of service.” He giggled then, and when Eddie couldn’t form words to reply, tacked on, “I’m fucking with you. Uh… Food does sound good though. I’m fucking starving. Do you know a place? A normal place, not somewhere I need to go rent a tux just to get in.”

“I know quite a few places, Mr. Tozier. Is there anything particular you have in mind?”

“Italian? Pasta’s always good.”

“I know just the place then,” Eddie informed him, the butterflies fluttering like mad in his stomach as he waited for the words he already _knew_ Mr. Tozier would say.

“Awesome. Sounds perfect… But, hey, why don’t you come with me? You’re just gonna wait around in the car anyway, aren’t you? A guy’s gotta eat.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, but thank you anyway, Mr. Toz—”

“Come on! Live a little. No one has to know you’re slumming it with old Richie Tozier. Live a little.” He was leaning into the front seat again, smelling like wonderful cologne. He was so close Eddie could feel his breath on his neck.

“Well… Well, if you insist, Mr. Tozier. The place I’m thinking is one of my favorites… I-I wouldn’t mind getting a bite to eat, too.” 

When Mr. Tozier leaned back in his seat, Eddie began gnawing his lip—whether with nerves or excitement, he didn’t know. What he did know was the previous day had been forgotten. He was alright –he was _happy_ —and Mr. Tozier was looking at him again from the backseat in a way that made his heart soar higher than any cloud in the sky.


	8. Chapter 8

Richie can’t help but smile to himself over how shy and timid Eddie was as they walked into the restaurant. He seemed so out of his element and awkward, like he’d never been taken to dinner before, and fidgeted with his tie the whole time they waited for an open table.

“Perhaps I should’ve called on the way over to make a reservation,” he said, almost as if to himself while looking worriedly around the restaurant like he was afraid someone would see and recognize him. “I’m… I’m terribly sorry about that, sir. I didn’t think ahead—”

“Richie. Call me Richie. Otherwise people are going to start thinking we’re into some weird shit when they overhear.” Richie winked at him, but the comment seemed to go over Eddie’s head. He was staring at him, looking completely perturbed. 

“Plenty of people of go to dinner to discuss business. I don’t think they’d find it weird...”

“You’re right,” Richie said, unable to keep from grinning like mad. “My mistake.”

This seemed to make Eddie flustered and he started fidgeting with his tie even more—probably one step away from making a noose out of it to escape the situation all together. 

“I’m… I’m sorry, it’s just been a long time since I...since I’ve gone out with anyone besides the other drivers. T-To hang out, I mean. Not..not go out. I-I go out all the time.” 

He abso-fucking-lutely did not, but Richie loved him for trying. 

“Yeah? Where’s your favorite place to take your dates?” Richie asked, holding in his laugh because he didn’t want to let Eddie in on the fact that he was aware of the bluff. He was also a tad worried, too, that Eddie would think he was making fun of him again and run off.

Eddie prattled off a couple of restaurants nervously, then looked beyond relieved when the waiter came to show them to their table. If Richie had to guess, this man had never actually been on a date in his life. Or at least not one with another man. If really was pulled from the 50s as Richie thought, he probably feared he’d be murdered for it. 

The thought was sobering and Richie tried his best to stay mindful of it as he sat down across from his nervous date. It was so hard not to tease him, but Richie forced himself to behave. He knew his personality could drive even the most patient of people batshit crazy, and he knew just as well that Eddie was too polite to tell him to kindly shut the fuck up and leave some oxygen for the rest of the world. (Or to even just say Beep-Beep as the Losers had taken to doing.) He’d already let himself get carried away in the car, and he doubted if he kept up that velocity that he’d ever see Eddie again.

It was just difficult for him to keep his hands to himself with how delightful Eddie was. He felt like a fricken schoolboy all over again, finding any excuse in the world to make physical contact. It was just something about those big, innocent eyes—or the way he smiled damn near any time Richie spoke to him at all. His other clients must’ve really treated him like shit for him to be completely beside himself over comments from Richie Tozier. 

That or the fucking turtle scrambled his brain to make him a simpering mess.

Something deep down told Richie, though, that this was just who Eddie was.

The whole time they skimmed the menu, Richie kept his mouth shut, listening to Eddie’s little commentary on the best and worst dishes—like Eddie was his own personal travel guide. He could tell the blond was babbling because he was nervous.

“You come here a lot then?” Richie asked him.

“Um, well… More or less. I do tend to eat out a bit more than I should. Sometimes if I’m waiting on a client, these restaurants are the best to kill time.” He smiled, but it looked forced, like he was biting back a “sir” or “Mr. Tozier.” 

“Ever take someone on a date when you’re in the middle of a job? Like ‘hey, I’m driving Brad Pitt, but I’ve got another hour before he needs to get to his hair appointment. Want to grab coffee?’”

“Never!” Eddie exclaimed, looking horrified by the idea, and then absolutely flustered—like he’d just admitted he’d never actually had a date. “I-I mean, I wouldn’t make a lady drive herself to the date and—and I couldn’t very well use the car I’ve reserved for my client.”

Richie had maybe half a second of doubt—wondering if maybe he was wrong and his gay-dar had misfired on this man, that he’d sexually harassed some poor straight dude who didn’t have the confidence or ability to tell him to shove off—and then Eddie was stammering all over himself.

“Well, by that I mean, of course… Ladies do drive themselves these days. I even have a few lady drivers on my team. I don’t know why I said that at all… I guess in this day and age it’s more common, probably safer, even, for a woman to drive herself. She could be afraid I’m a killer or something. You can never be sure, you know? If you’re a woman… Better safe than sorry.”

“You think about that a lot? Being a woman?” Richie asked, smirking as Eddie’s face turned bright red.

“No! But—But you _can_ imagine it has to be frightening times.”

“What if it’s a woman going to meet another woman? Who drives then?”

“Well… Well, I don’t...I don’t know. They drive themselves, I suppose. Or—Or it’s the city, really. They probably take the subway. Or a cab.” He didn’t grimace at the idea or cringe or show confusion at the idea of two women going out together. One more point for the gay-dar. “I-I wouldn’t know. I can’t say I have much experience with that.” He was adjusting his tie again and then downing most of his glass of water—and shaking a pill into his palm from a little, vintage pill box from his pocket. 

“Do I really make you that nervous? You’ve gotta pop chill pills at the table just to deal with me?” Richie asked, smiling so Eddie would know he was only joking.

“Th-They’re vitamins. I… It’s just that time.” He smiled timidly, and popped what was definitely _not_ a vitamin. 

The two of them shared an appetizer while they waited for the food, Eddie seeming more and more at ease as he nibbled on tiny bites of food like he was afraid to look hungry. He definitely popped a chill pill, and he was definitely much better for it as far as Richie was concerned—though someone might want to warn him against keeping controlled substances in decorative tins instead of their marked prescription bottles. It was 1940 anymore.

“So, tell me about yourself, Eds. How’d you end up in the limo business?” Richie asked, one cocktail in with a glass of wine set to arrive with his entree. If it came down to it, he told himself, he could blame his slowly-building speech about space turtles on the booze.

“Well, I wanted to be a train conductor all my life, but my mother’s always been in such poor health and...to be honest, I have, too. So we agreed I’d stay in the city. I get tired of being in the same place too long, so driving seemed like the best option. But… I-I have to say, a man like me didn’t do so well just driving a cab. I got held up and spit on and one man stole my car if you can believe it. Just dragged me out and threw me into the road.”

“You’re kidding!” Richie exclaimed, feeling his blood boil at whatever ruffian had the audacity to throw someone as timid and meek as Eddie into the street. He would’ve probably turned tail and run if the guy just told him to firmly enough to beat it.

“No! It was probably one of the—if not _the_ most frightening...” He paused then, his eyes getting wide and haunted with a look Richie knew too fucking well from seeing it on the faces of his friends when a conversation turned dark. “Well, one of the most...most frightening things I’ve… It was slushy and just awful. New York always is in the winter. It ruined my new coat and trousers. I think I skinned my knee, too. I know I hurt my elbow. After that happened, I decided my days with the yellow cab were over. 

“I got lucky, I suppose, and one thing led to another and I had some clients already lined up from businesses I’d worked with before. I had people who liked me, _really_ liked me, and they gave me some backing and it all grew from there. I still get spit on from time to time, but no one has punched me or tried to steal the car.”

Richie was still a bit hung up on the mental image he had of some asshole throwing this poor man out onto the road to get run over, and wondering about whatever had flashed in Eddie's mind that made his face look so haunted when he thought about it.

“People—People spit on you!?” Richie choked out, forcing himself to find some sort of response to the story so Eddie would stop looking sheepish—like he thought he’d shared too much.

“Not… Well, sometimes, yes. You see, celebrities tend to drink. And when people drink they lose control of their faculties a bit. They believe you’ve taken a wrong turn, or—or perhaps you have, and they...react.”

“Act like fucking cunts is what they do,” Richie said, scoffing and taking a sip of his drink before plucking the last of the appetizers off the plate and eating it, hoping it’d somehow help him choke down his rage.

“I-I supposed you could say so, Mr. Toz—Ah! Richie. Richie, sorry.” He was blushing scarlet again and fussing with that awful tie. 

“You’re fine. But if I’m in town and someone gives you trouble, just call me. Or your mafia friend. I’m sure he could take care of ‘em for you. If I’m not around.” Richie gave him the well-angled smile that had been working on him all day and Eddie hid behind his water glass. 

Their entrees came and that reset the mood, Eddie no longer looking like he’d die of embarrassment and Richie getting over being pissed off at the idea of someone putting hands on Eddie (well, it still pissed him off, but it was more a second or third thought than the first thing on his mind). 

A few bites had the blond man smiling to himself like a little kid that had just gotten a bowl of ice cream for dinner even though all he had in front of him was some kind chicken in a brown sauce over pasta that didn’t look like they belonged together. Still, despite his smile, his brow kept that deep crease that made him look worried.

“Are you from California originally, Richie?” He’d started to say ‘Mr. Tozier’ again but caught himself just in time and hid his embarrassment behind his cloth napkin—which, when not in use, he kept folded in his lap like the proper little gentleman he was.

“No,” Richie said, watching Eddie’s face carefully as he said, “I’m from Maine, actually.” 

His eyes lit up even more than they had when his food had been served.

“I’m from Maine!” He exclaimed, then apologized profusely for raising his voice.

“Where? Portland?” Richie asked, his stomach twisting up because _here it was._ Here it was at long last, the lead-in to his real question of the night.

“Oh, this little, tiny place. This dirty little town in the middle of nowhere. Mother and I hated in there. We only moved in because the properties were so cheap and we needed a house after my father died.”

Damnit. He couldn’t very well ignore that bomb just to ask what dirty little town in particular.

“I’m sorry to hear that. How old were you when he passed?”

“Oh, I-I was really young. I don’t remember him at all,” Eddie said, looking at him nervously. 

“Cancer?” Richie asked, because he already knew. Eddie Kaspbrak’s father died of cancer and it turned his mother into a hypochondriacal, control freak. 

“Yes, I’m afraid so. I-I get screened every year, but I think—well, I hope anyway—it skipped my generation. My father also tended to smoke a lot, too. Or so my mother says. I made sure I never did—not that I could. With my asthma.” He nodded then, like he was agreeing to something. God only knew what.

“Which town was it in Maine? Maybe I drove through.”

“I doubt you would have. There’s really nothing there.”

“Sounds like my hometown,” Richie tried instead, since Eddie was apparently fucking determined not to mention it.

Or, shit… Did he not _remember_ it?

“Where was that?” Eddie asked, just before taking a bite of chicken which he immediately started to choke on once Richie answered. “Derry!? You—You’re from Derry? But—But that’s not possible! Un—Unless… Unless you changed your name. Why—But… We-We’re about the same age, you and I! I-I feel I would’ve met you. It was a...a small town.” That haunted look came back, and then his eyes got glassy and he was rummaging in his pocket for his inhaler which didn’t calm him.

“Well, how old were you when you were there?”

“Oh… Early—Early childhood. Probably moved when I was maybe in middle school, I think. It’s been so long now. Did you not go to the...the elementary school there?”

“I did. My family moved there in...’77? ‘78? Left when I probably fifteen, sixteen. So, early ‘90s or so we left.” Richie watched Eddie’s face crumple, his hands going to his cheeks like he’d just heard devastating news.

“But that’s… That’s not—Oh, oh dear. I-I… I must admit, Mr. Tozier, I’ve had terrible memory problems since the accident. I must’ve just...just forgotten. There’s—Oh, but wait!” All of a sudden, his eyes got so much...bigger. Brighter. His face softened so much that it made butterflies start up in Richie’s stomach out of nowhere. Why the hell did Eddie suddenly look so fond of him? Unless… “That’s why you kept—oh, you have to forgive me. Richie, I’m so sorry. We were classmates together, weren’t we? And I… I just forgot. That’s why you’ve been so kind. I… Oh. Oh, what a mess...” That fondness was gone in a flash, replaced by doubt, then worry—then he looked like he was about to be sick. 

“I went to school with an Eddie Kaspbrak,” Richie said, fighting whatever feeling he had in his chest that told him to tread more carefully. “But it wasn’t you. And you probably did go to school in Derry with a Richie Tozier, and he wasn’t me.”

“We all change a lot,” Eddie said, swallowing hard and grabbing for his water glass, almost spilling it. 

“What year were you born?” 

“Oh—Um… Well, let’s… I-I’m turning forty-two in November so… So probably ‘76—”

“Probably? What year were you born?” Richie pressed again. He _knew,_ he was just fighting it. Richie could see it in his face.

“I… I told you, I’ve had memory…memory problems,” he said, looking almost on the verge of tears. 

“Like amnesia?” Richie asked, pulling back a bit so the man didn’t bolt. 

“Yes! Yes, something an awful lot like that. I’m terribly sorry if I forgot about you. I… To be honest, when I met you I felt that you might be familiar. But—But I felt the same when I met your friends and I know I haven’t met them. I don’t… I don’t think.”

“Well, I went to school with all of them. And so did Eddie Kaspbrak.” 

“Oh, dear… I-I… I’ve made such a—such a fool of myself. I—”

“I told you already, it wasn’t _you._ You have the same name and the same life, and the same crazy mom who thinks you’re sick when you’re not—” That got his face to go pale with shock so quickly Richie thought he might faint. “—but you’re not him. He had black hair. You’ve got the same eyes, though. Same… Same eyes. But, he didn’t act like you.”

He started to stammer about hair dye, insisting he wasn’t a dyed blond except to cover his grays. 

“I know about the turtle,” Richie said, unable to take much more. Eddie seemed to feel the same, because his shoulders dropped and he let out this heavy sigh that could’ve been frustration or relief. “It talked to you, too, didn’t it? The giant fucking turtle. What did it say to you? Where did it _pull_ you from? Or...Or _when?”_

“Th—The last thing I remember from my accident was being in a brand new 1991 Cadillac," Eddie said, looking ghostly pale. "When I woke up, they told me it was a 2016 Lincoln Stretch. I-I remember being born in 1947. I-I remember praying I didn’t get drafted. I remember all kinds of things I shouldn’t—and don’t know anything about all kinds of things that I should. I-I’ve lived in New York my _whole_ adult life, and I don’t remember 9/11. How do you forget something like that? I would’ve been _driving!_ I would’ve been over fifty! What’s happening to me?” He asked, his face still pale and his whole body shaking. He looked at Richie like he held all the answers, but the only one he had was:

“The turtle. It was the fucking turtle. Eddie—my Eddie, the Eddie I knew—he died. He died in front of me. And I wanted him back. I… I don’t know how that translated to you being here, but...the turtle brought you here. I think.”

“I’m _not_ crazy,” he said, looking down at his food which, suddenly, he started to eat again. “I told them I wasn’t crazy. I said—I told them all, ‘I was on my way to pick up Bill Murray in Manhattan. I wasn’t anywhere _near_ the Lincoln Tunnel.’ They acted like I was mad...” 

“If it makes you feel any better, my manager still thinks I was tripping on codeine.” 

Eddie didn’t seem to be listening. He continued eating his food while the color slowly came back to his face. For the moment, Richie left him to it—let him process it. 

“Bill Murray, huh? What’s he like?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t get to drive him. I was too busy being pulled here by...by a turtle. Apparently.”

“You said you drove Pacino. What year was that?”

“Late 80s! I’m so _relieved!_ You don’t understand. My mother insists I have some trauma-induced amnesia and that I made all these memories up. But—But wait! If… But Joey is here! And my mother, too! They were...they were with me back then. Did it bring them, too?”

“I guess so,” Richie said. “It’s God, right? Probably didn’t want you to be lonely. Be happy. Other Eddie’s mom died.”

“Don’t say that!” He snapped it so firmly it left Richie a bit taken aback. It did the same to Eddie, too, because his face went slack with realization right after. “I-I beg your pardon. I… That’s just—”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry. My bad.” 

Eddie went back to his normal state—that is to say looking worried that the sky was about to fall—and set down his fork.

“The thing, too, is… I don’t remember any friends. I… To tell the truth, I’m sort of a loser. I don’t have any friends. Except Joey and my mother. As...as sad as that is. Seems people don’t like me all that much—”

“Yeah, you’re a loser. We both are. All our friends are. We’re the Losers’ Club.”

Again, that look of horror crossed Eddie’s face and he cringed, arms going to wrap around his chest like he was cold—or in pain.

“Losers… Losers’ Club. Yes, I… Oh, but—but no. No, no! No.” He shook his head and grabbed his inhaler again, taking a deep breath from it and squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Eddie,” Richie said, reaching across the table to lay his hand atop the other man’s. “Do you remember something...something bad? Something you don’t want to?”

“Not… Not a memory,” he said, shivering. “A _feeling._ Just… Just a bad feeling. What if I… What if I didn’t make it out?”

“Out? Out of where?” Richie stared at him, watching his face course with fear and pain and sadness—so many different things all at once.

“M-Maybe you didn’t have it… Maybe—Maybe it wasn’t in your world. In… In this place—this time.”

“It?” Richie asked. The word made a shiver go down Eddie’s spine. “Pennywise.” 

“The deadlights,” he said, vanquishing any doubt Richie might’ve had. “I… I was in the deadlights. I was never… There never was a ‘91 Cadillac, was there? It was the deadlights. It showed me what I wanted to see. Whatever kept me from...from moving on. I was… I was in the deadlights with Stan and...so many people.” 

He might’ve had more to say, but then his eyes rolled back in his head and he’d fainted, tumbling from his chair before Richie could get to his feet and catch him. He was at his side though a moment later when his eyes started to open, a dizzy little smile on his face. 

“Richie?” He asked, the name seeming like it held some more significance to him now.

“Yeah?” Richie said, grinning at him nervously from the sea of faces hovering around, asking if they should call 911.

“Red hair...”

“No, that’s Beverly. Bev’s the fire crotch.” That effectively got a couple spectators to scurry away. “Are you okay? You fainted. Does your head hurt?”

“No… No, you had red hair. And one time you dumped a whole cup of Coca-Cola on Henry Bowers' head.”

“Okay, pal. Okay, tell me about it when you’re not laying on the floor. Do you wanna sit up?”

“I knocked the popcorn off the railing right on top of him. He was always trying to rough me up… I didn’t mean to do it, but I knew he’d kill me. Richie… Richie threw a whole cup of Coke on him. What was it you said?” 

“I don’t know, buddy. Let’s get you up,” Richie helped Eddie back into his seat, assuring everyone who was staring that all was fine but they could use a round of water. “Sorry you had to deal with Bowers, too. Guy was a fuckin’ creep. Did yours have a mullet?”

“No—no, that’s not our thing. He… He probably had enough grease in his hair to start a fire.” He smiled at that, still looking far away. “Richie?” 

“Yes?” Richie asked, taking a long drink from his glass of wine. 

“Do you think tomorrow night, we could go out for drinks?”

“Uh… As long as you promise not to make me dump it on anyone’s head,” Richie offered, smiling for him but still on edge. He was waiting for him to pass out again—and would be until that hazy look left his eyes.

“Or hands,” Eddie said, laughing to himself and shaking his head. When he looked back at Richie again, his eyes had cleared a bit. Now he just looked bashful and a small bit tired—probably from his chill pill. “Can I tell you something?”

“Please do!” Richie said, making an ‘out with it’ gesture with his hand while smiling, still not quite at ease. He was sitting with a ghost, or what had only very recently been one. A reincarnation of a different Eddie from a different universe who knew a _different Richie Tozier_ who fought a _different Henry Bowers._ He just prayed whatever Eddie told him wouldn’t be enough to make him faint, too. 

“The last time I went to a bar,” he started, his voice sounding less woozy and a little more like himself, “Joey and the other drivers—some of the other drivers—they went out and invited me. They...they wanted me to meet someone, I guess and...and there was a very beautiful, very nice girl there, and—and I was so nervous I spilled my drink all over myself like a real moron. Promise if that happens, you won’t leave me standing there like an idiot all by myself?”

“If you spill a drink on yourself, I’ll trade you shirts. How’s that sound?” Richie smiled for him and Eddie ducked his head like he was shy again, but he was beaming like a little kid. “Just promise you won’t do it on purpose as an excuse to get my shirt off.” He said it, mostly to see what reaction he’d get—whether disgust now that they were past the whole client-driver shtick or indifferent or interest. 

What he got was a nervous peal of laughter and a shake of the head. 

“I-I don’t generally try to make a fool of myself in public. It just sometimes happens.” He nodded then, his blond curls bobbing on top of his head in affirmation. Yes, it happened sometimes? Yes, he was going to spill his drink on purpose? 

“Tomorrow night then,” Richie said, raising his nearly empty wine in a toast. “Just make sure you call your mother first.” 

“I’ll tell her I’m working late.” Said very quickly, and more to his nearly-empty plate than to Richie. “Perhaps we can...catch up more then? I think… Well, I _don’t_ think I can handle much more tonight.” 

“Yeah, don’t go fallin’ for me again,” Richie teased, watching his face to see those brown eyes go wide while Eddie tried to hide his smile. “I’m not the one who threw a soda on Henry Bowers, but I would’ve if I could. And beat up any assholes who try to steal your car.”

This got Eddie to look down at his plate with an oddly affectionate, giddy smile. He’d told Richie he had no friends besides his coworker—his own employee—and his mother. It made him sad because Eddie was such a genuinely sweet person… Granted he hadn’t been in _this_ New York long enough to make any friends with how shy and out-of-place he was. 

Richie would fix that. He made a vow to himself that he would. Losers stick together, and it was all too easy to recognize him as one of their own.


	9. Chapter 9

The following day, when Eddie picked him up at his hotel, Richie got in the front seat—even as Eddie was holding open the back door for him. 

“It’s going to take more than that to get me in your backseat after last night, Eds,” he said as he was buckling himself in and Eddie was left red and embarrassed, closing both doors before walking around to the driver’s side on trembling legs.

Was he implying that to get in the backseat again would mean… Oh, but Eddie couldn’t bear to think of that! He was still embarrassed over how things had gone over dinner, how he’d fainted like he had and made a real fool of himself. So far, though, Richie seemed forgiving. Eddie supposed they both had the turtle to thank for that.

And, oh, what a relief it was to know he _wasn’t_ mental, to know he didn’t need locked up in a maximum security hospital never to see the light of day again. He knew he couldn’t very well explain any of this to his mother or Joey or his therapist, but he was absolutely overcome with his relief. It was as if a twenty tonne boulder had been removed from his chest. 

For the time being, Eddie didn’t let himself dwell on the fact that he was only here—only walking and breathing and able to drive Mr. Tozier around after having breakfast with his mother—because he had died already. Because he had died once and was now, miraculously, back to life. With his _mother_ and his best friend, too! Well, as best as he could get at any rate… Whatever happened to _his_ gang of actual friends? His Richie? His Beverly and Bill and Ben? His Mike? What happened to all of them? Oh, it could drive him mad to think of it. He had no way to know. They weren’t even in the same realm that he now inhabited. He was gone from their world and they were, forever more, gone from his… He would have to acclimate to these new versions, these 2000s era versions. How strange it all was…

At least he still had his mother. She could be overbearing at times, and he’d tried to leave her more than once in the past, but she loved him—and sometimes it really felt an awful lot like she was the only one who did. 

This morning though, when she found out he was driving for Richie again, she had almost started to cry.

“He’s such a crude, wicked man, Eddie!”

“Ma, he’s not that bad. Besides, I wouldn’t make any money if I went around dismissing all of my clients just because you didn’t like them. I wouldn’t have a single client left!” He said this while gnawing on barely buttered toast while she poured more coffee into her cup.

“Well perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for you to use a little more discretion! Remember that one time you were stuck driving those _awful_ people who did _foul things_ in the back? Why, I don’t know how you didn’t kick them out right on the spot and demand a—a fee! An extra charge!”

Eddie shook his head (that memory being one of many that left him wanting to shudder) and told her not to be absurd. It came with the territory. Sometimes people couldn’t be helped. (And sometimes he wasn’t so sure if he was too shy to stop them or if a bad, lonely, innocent part of himself wanted to overhear and figure out what was going on—what he might be expected to do if he ever...found himself in such a place as that, whether in the back of a car or in a bed on his honeymoon perhaps.) 

With his dismissal of her worries about clients hooking up in the back of his limousines, she turned her attention back to the real issue at hand—Mr. Tozier and how much she hated the idea of Eddie spending any time with him at all, even in a professional sense. She had been so upset that they’d gone out for dinner, even though he reiterated that it was _strictly business._ This set her off into an almost tearful tangent about the quality of Richie’s character and the negative influence he’d have on her “precious boy.”

“Eddie… Eddie, now’s not the time to be naive. You’ve got to be reasonable now. He’s such a vulgar, obscene man, Eddie. Oh, Eddie, you’ve got to think what a bad man like that would want with someone like you. Aren’t you afraid he might have...unnatural feelings toward you?” She nodded at him, all misty-eyed, thinking she’d said just the right thing to get him to cooperate and do as she pleased. 

Perhaps a year ago—or a lifetime ago, as Eddie understood it now—he would’ve trembled at the very idea. More so in fear of being caught, of being beaten to death or arrested, being outed as a man who might be in possession of those same unnatural feelings his mother was raving about. Today, though, today and in this new life, Eddie set down his unappetizing toast and said to her, “So what if he does, Ma?”

“Eddie!”

“He’s a very nice man, and...and I won’t have you talking badly about him. I won’t… I won’t have it in this house.” He nodded then, curtly, repeating one of the many phrases his mother had used on him his whole life. 

“Oh! How _dare_ you?” And immediately, she started the waterworks. “How dare you speak to your mother that way?” If she were anyone else’s mother, she might’ve sounded angry. For him, though, his mother just asked it as though she were mortally wounded—hitching with a cry as though he’d shot her or slapped her or had done any number of awful things. “Oh, Eddie! Eddie, this is all his fault; don’t you see? He’s rubbed off on you already! My sweet boy would never talk to me that way… ‘Nice man,’ oh! He didn’t seem like a very nice man at all when he sent you home crying the other night! It _killed me,_ Eddie, to see you so upset!” 

He apologized to her then, wanting her to stop crying more than anything. It shouldn’t still work on him after all these years, but it did. He didn’t want anyone to cry because of him, ever, even if it wasn’t really his fault. 

“You must be reasonable, Eddie. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again. You’re so...so _unlike_ other boys—” Spoken to him as if he were still ten-years-old and not over forty. “—and it’d be so easy for him to take advantage… Oh, Eddie! What if he _drugs_ you?”

“Alright, Ma. That’s enough. That wouldn’t happen!”

“He could take advantage and you wouldn’t even know! You mustn’t drive him again. Send Joey if you _must_ keep his business.”

“I have no problems driving Richie myself—”

“Eddie! Oh, Eddie—Eddie, no! He’s already gotten to you! Hasn’t he? _Hasn’t he!?_ That’s why you were out so late last night! You could have caught AIDS, Eddie! You must get checked at once!”

“Nothing happened last night except dinner!”

“Stop scaring me like this, Eddie! You’re going to scare me right into my grave! You’ll have _killed_ your own, sweet mother!”

Eddie had flopped back in his seat then, rolling his eyes and letting out a sharp sigh before tossing his napkin onto his unfinished plate and leaving the table. He got his coffee thermos ready, put on his jacket, and left, informing her only that he would be home late. There was just no reasoning with her when she was like that.

So, with all that fresh in his mind, when Richie slapped him on the knee as soon as he’d fastened himself in with the seat belt and asked him how “Dear Mrs. K took to her precious baby boy being out so late” the night before, Eddie could only chuckle and tell him the story about what transpired over breakfast. 

“Don’t feel bad. My Eddie’s mother hated me, too.” 

As Eddie drove for him, Richie’s hand stayed on his knee. It was oddly one of the most comforting and intimate things that had ever been done to him, and Eddie’s heart was pounding like crazy as he navigated the city traffic. 

“You still on for drinks tonight?” Richie asked, every now and then squeezing Eddie’s knee in his warm, large hand. 

What would happen, Eddie thought, if he just lowered one hand from the wheel and set it on top of Richie’s? Surely it wouldn’t be too intimate of an act, right? He’d just be reciprocating a gentle hand-hold. 

“Yes. Absolutely. You’ll find I am a man of my word,” Eddie said, his face heating up as though he’d just made some embarrassing love confession or spit out his biggest secret! 

“I had something else I wanted to ask,” Richie said, pulling his hand away slowly to rest in his own lap. 

“Alright.” Eddie nodded, trying to keep his focus on the road and not his racing thoughts. Would it be about the turtle? About the past he remembered or the friends he’d had? Or would it be something simple, like a good restaurant for dinner or a place to get his hair cut?

“Do you want to come to my show tomorrow night? It’s my last one in New York and then I’m off to Boston or...somewhere. Fuck, can’t remember. That’s what Steve’s for. Uh...Do you want to? Come to the show?”

“Oh! Oh… Oh, I—I suppose I could. I don’t have ticket, but perhaps they still have some for sale—” Eddie was cut off by Richie’s loud laughter and then his hand clapping him on the shoulder so hard the wheel jerked from the force of it, causing them to swerve and someone else to honk and scream at them. It made Eddie’s face grow even hotter and, he was ashamed to admit, that even after all his years in New York, the anger of that other driver—when it was his fault—made his eyes start to sting. 

“Dude, I can comp you a ticket,” Richie said, laughing at him even still. “You can sit with Bev and the guys. I told them everything—they’re really excited to meet you. You know... _again.”_

“Oh. Al—Alright then. I… I guess I could attend. It would certainly be better than sitting in the parking garage or going home to wait.” 

The butterflies that formed in his stomach remained there the rest of the day, after four stops and two meals eaten alone—meals spent daydreaming about the show and how things might play out this time. Richie said his friends were _excited_ to meet him properly. They were excited to see him! _Him!_ For the first time in so long he felt _connected_ to something. He felt like he had a group—he had _friends._ It helped, too, that Richie had texted him all day—no matter where he was. 

Little messages kept popping up, even when Eddie was sure their conversation should be at an end. All afternoon and into the evening it was “What are you up to?” and “Whatcha snackin on?” or “How’s the parking deck?” Eddie wasn’t good at texting by any means, and felt much more confident in his lack of skills now that he knew he never actually learned them himself like he should’ve. He died somewhere in the early nineties. The most advanced technology he ever used was a car phone and a beeper. And he really hated the beeper. 

Richie was filming for a late night talk show, which was actually filmed in the early evening before dinner time. After filming, he was going to dinner with a few of the other acts from the show—all of whom took different cars to the same place meaning Richie had no shame in riding shotgun with his hand on Eddie’s knee the whole way. 

“I wish you could come to dinner,” he said. “It’d be a hell of a lot more interesting.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” Eddie said, catching himself after the word slipped out. He’d been good about not being too formal all day, and now he just gave Richie more grounds to laugh at him. 

“Well, not with that attitude, Mister!” Richie said, still chuckling. 

“I do beg your pardon,” Eddie said, face growing hot. He was surprised he didn’t spend all day looking like he’d gotten a sunburn on his cheeks with how much Richie’s attention got to him.

“Nah, Eds, these guys are fun, but...I don’t know. Having you there would be perfect. They could say a bunch of raunchy shit and then watch your face get all horrified at it. You’re so fuckin’ proper, it’s hilarious. All prim and posh and then—boom!” And he said it horribly loud. “You drop a wicked bomb of your own and they’re all stunned silent. Bunch of comedians and actors shell-shocked because the cute, unassuming limo driver’s got lines for days.”

“I don’t think I have lines for days...whatever that means,” Eddie said, nearly vibrating out of his skin under Richie’s touch on his leg. His hand was higher than it had been all day, close to mid-thigh. 

He hoped the man wasn’t going to make a pass at him—try to fondle him when he drove. And then, with a stuttered, sharp breath, he imagined what might transpire if he did. Not that he would. Would he? Eddie knew for certain he’d end up crashing the car if Richie’s hand went any higher. It was becoming all too clear now that what Richie wanted with him was something more than just friends—and with the turtle’s promise still in his mind, Eddie found himself rushing straight into it. Love, it had promised him. Deep, authentic love. He wanted that more than anything in the whole world, and he wouldn’t mind one bit if Mr. Tozier were the person it came from. In fact, he might just prefer it. His mother may have hated Richie for all of his crudeness, but Eddie found himself delighting in it. 

While Richie ate dinner with his costars, Eddie found himself a nice, casual place where he was able to eat and sip a sweet tea while he passed the time. He was excited to go out for drinks, even if he’d just have a glass of ginger ale with a little umbrella in it—maybe with some grenadine to make it look more...alcoholic. He certainly hoped Richie wouldn’t be offended if they went for drinks and he didn’t drink—but, then again, if he took offense to such a small thing, then maybe they weren’t…

Oh, Eddie could bear to think about that. 

Even so, he was a bundle of nerves and excitement as he drove to the restaurant to pick Richie up. The man had texted him saying he “knew just the place” to go for drinks. Quiet, private, and upscale, he said. The kind of place he himself probably loathed but where Eddie would feel much more comfortable than some dive bar or colorful Mexican place.

Eddie was so excited he could hardly keep from beaming at all the men and women who came and went from the restaurant where Richie had been having dinner as he waited. His hands were shaking, but he hid them in the pockets of his trousers in hopes Richie wouldn’t notice and tease him.

A wasted effort. As soon as Richie stepped outside with his small party of fellow celebs, the realization that the two of them were, for lack of any better term, about to be going on a _date_ washed over Eddie. He almost collapsed under the force of it, his knees becoming weak as it dawned on him that the smile Richie was giving him was _meant_ for him—not just another customer glad to see his driver and fancy ride, but as a...a friend. Or more. After so long… 

Eddie hardly realized he was fussing with his jacket, straightening it compulsively, until Richie was mere steps from him and pointed it out.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you look like you’re about to stand me up,” Richie said, his words very nearly going over Eddie’s head all together. 

“What?—oh! Oh, no. No, I’m just...just glad you survived dinner. You know, since you said it would bore you to death.” Eddie stammered and tripped over his words like a fool. That, at least, took the dumb smile off his face. 

“Just barely,” Richie said, ignoring the back door to the car that Eddie had pulled open for him and once again getting in the passenger seat. “I told you this morning, Eds, it’s going to take more than that to get me in your backseat after last night. C’mon. Let’s go. I survived that whole dinner on one glass of wine. Papa needs a good mixed drink.” 

“Oh—Well, alright then,” Eddie said, closing both the back and passenger side doors before going around the front of the car to sit in the driver’s seat. Two of the guests Richie had been dining with noticed the exchange and Eddie wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it. Hopefully they would just think it was business as usual for Mr. Tozier. He was an eccentric man. Perhaps they would think nothing of him getting in the passenger seat and giving his driver a hard time.

Surely they wouldn’t suspect…

Oh, but there was Richie’s hand on his thigh again. Eddie felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest as he finished buckling his seat belt. His fingers shook as he turned the key to start the car, but he managed to keep a level voice as he asked where Richie wanted to go for drinks.

The bar was very, very nice and very upscale. Everyone there dressed in formal attire and kept to their tables, speaking in low murmurs to keep their discussions private. It was the sort of place that made Richie stick out like a sore thumb, but where Eddie felt comfortable enough to breathe a sigh of relief. He didn’t look out of place here, and though the hostess who showed them to a little table in the back corner gave Richie a few disapproving glances, no one paid them any attention at all. 

“I… I supposed you’d laugh at me if I just ordered a Coke with grenadine,” Eddie said as he read over the matte cardstock cocktail menu. 

“Uh, yeah, because I’ll be paying eight bucks for it and there’s nothing good in it,” Richie said with a loud laugh that got a few of the other guests to pass him irritable glances. He mouthed sorry at them, but was still grinning as if to prove he wasn’t the least bit sorry at all. It made Eddie flush with embarrassment, but at the same time felt a little bit like he was sitting at the cool kids’ table in the high school cafeteria with the student monitors giving him the stink eye. He felt a tad bit rebellious. 

“I suppose I could… I… Oh, I’m really not good at drinking,” Eddie confessed, staring at the drinks—none of their names making any sense to him.

An Old Fashioned? A Martini? A Cosmopolitan? He didn’t know what these were besides...alcohol. Were they sweet? Would he look foolish if he asked their server what was sweet? Would he look _immature?_ Would he give himself away and have Richie laugh at him in a bad way?

“Why? Too used to Mrs. K serving you with a sippy cup? I promise, Big Boy cups are just as easy.” Richie waited for Eddie to look at him before winking, his little smile not getting him off the hook this time.

“I do not use a sippy cup. I can drink from a glass just fine. I just… I don’t drink alcohol. I… I have in the past and it’s just never sat well with me.”

“Then why did you say yes to going out to drinks? Shit, we could’ve got milkshakes and went to a movie or something.” 

That sounded nice; really nice. But they were here at the bar and Eddie wasn’t going to switch up the plans.

“I thought I’d give it a try. I just… I don’t know what anything _tastes_ like. I don’t want to end up with something nasty or—or that makes my stomach upset.”

“Do you like surprises?” Richie asked, his eyes having a horribly mischievous sparkle when Eddie met his gaze.

“I… I guess that would depend on the surprise.” 

“Let me order for you. And if you hate it, I’ll drink it. Win-Win.”

“Okay, but… But promise you won’t get just straight liquor. I-I’m no good at doing shots. I… I tried it once and...and as soon as I swallowed it, I was sick. Right away. My stomach couldn’t handle it at all.” Oh, Eddie hoped he didn’t throw up and make a fool of himself. His stomach was already full of butterflies and tied up in knots.

“I wouldn’t waste straight liquor on you. No, no, no. You gotta build up to that, Eddie Spaghetti. Are you alright with dairy? I think I know just the thing.”

“I am,” Eddie said, something flickering in the back of his mind—a bit of static at the nickname Richie had given him. Had _his_ Richie called him that before? Eddie Spaghetti? Faintly, Eddie could recall that he had—usually accompanied by the other boy’s knuckles digging playfully at his scalp while he was ‘trapped’ in a headlock that honestly felt more like a hug. 

“Alright. I know what I’ll get you to start. Do you want snacks or anything? They’ve got some...stuff. I’ll translate the booze, but you’ve gotta explain this food to me. What the fuck’s a _char-cutery?”_

“Charcuterie? It’s like a meat and cheese plate, usually. Very high quality meats and cheeses.” 

“It better be high quality for twenty bucks. Do you want that? Or… Or they’ve got a...crostini? The fuck is… Damn, I hope this is impressing you, because I am lost,” Richie said, dropping the little menu and fixing Eddie with a hopeless smile that had the blond man melting in his seat.

Impressing him? The thought that anyone even cared about him enough to try to impress him had Eddie absolutely over the moon, utterly floored. 

He described the food and Richie described the drinks. Eddie thought one of the cocktails sounded good and said he might consider ordering it if he finished the “White Russian” Richie said he picked out for him. This, in turn, caused Richie to order both the White Russian (for Eddie) and the other cocktail Eddie had shown interest in for himself—so Eddie could try it, too, and see if he liked it.

“I’ll drink either one. I’m not picky. So if you hate the White Russian, I’ll take the...Lady Washington. Sounds like were picking hookers here, man. I don’t get these names,” Richie said with a laugh that made Eddie flush. He was helpless; utterly helpless.

And so it was settled. Richie ordered both the Charcuterie Board and the crostini, as well as the White Russian and Lady Washington. Eddie was sure to sip his water while he waited for the food to come, knowing he needed to make sure he didn’t drink on an empty stomach. That could lead to a whole slew of problems—like blacking out or a hangover or various other lapses in control that he just wouldn’t allow himself to risk. His water was in need of a refill by the time their food and drinks hit the table, and Eddie felt proud of this as he nibbled on a piece of crostini. After he’d taken a few bites, though, he knew it was the polite thing to do to try the drink Richie had picked out for him.

Even so, he felt a bit bashful as he raised the glass to his lips, unable to ignore the attentive stare Richie was giving him. He took a small sip, cringing on reflex at the bitter taste of the unmistakable alcohol. After that, though, he did taste faint notes of chocolate and cream—and maybe a touch of coffee? It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t the worst thing he’d tasted either. It was a lot better than the cough syrup his mother used to force on him when he was a kid—the bitter “cherry” kind that ended up making him regurgitate his dinner as well as his medicine whenever she forced it on him. That usually ended with an evening spent in the ER… Yes, this was much better than _that._

“You want to try this?” Richie asked, gesturing to his champagne flute which carried the Lady Washington that Eddie had also expressed some interest in. After another bite of crostini to “cleanse the palate,” Eddie accepted the flute and dared to sip from the rim of the glass that Richie had already drank from. He felt all the more devious in doing so, even if part of his brain was still teeming with nonsense fears about germs and viruses. Richie had not so much as sneezed in his presence since they’d been together—it wasn’t as though Eddie were likely to catch a cold from him!

“Oh!—I do like this one!” Eddie said, surprised at how _good_ the drink really tasted. Why, he could hardly tell (aside from the subtle burn in the back of his throat) that this beverage was alcoholic at all.

“Yeah? You wanna trade? I don’t mind. White Russian’s a classic.” Richie smiled at him as Eddie bashfully agreed to swap their drinks. He hoped he didn’t appear rude, but Richie truly didn’t seem to mind the swap and actually looked as though he enjoyed the White Russian a little better than he had the Lady Washington.

“You really don’t drink at all, do you?” Richie asked him after he’d finished his drink and his first helping from the charcuterie board. Eddie was hardly halfway through his and he thought he might need to hurry up, if not only to keep Richie from looking bad for having finished so soon.

“Oh… No, I-I guess I never really saw the appeal. I mean, in movies and TV shows it’s all blackouts and hangovers, right? Not really something that I’d be...or that’d have any interest in. I like to have my wits about me is all.”

“Ah, just come out with it and say it’s not healthy, Eds. We all know you’re a health freak.” Richie was smiling at him as he leaned back in his seat, looking like the picture of cool and casual. When Eddie’s mother used to warn him about other boys pressuring him to drink, he’d envisioned people like Henry Bowers bullying him for being a sissy for not wanting to shoot back Jack Daniels—not ever someone like Richie, casually encouraging him to down what was left of his cocktail in a few quick, calculated swallows. Perhaps it was his nonchalance which made Eddie feel so...secure. He certainly wasn’t afraid of Richie trying to coax him into binge drinking so he _would_ black out, so that Richie _could_ take advantage of him. 

“I suppose that’s true,” Eddie said with a nervous chuckle. He had been teased by Joey and a lot of his other drivers for being so health conscious—Richie’s banter, though, felt a lot more friendly. Richie, Eddie realized, wasn’t acting like it was a problem that needed fixed.

Richie...accepted him. 

The thought filled him with even more warmth than the cocktail. It pooled in his chest and his heart leapt from it. Accepted. He was accepted!

Perhaps the single cocktail had gone to his brain already because he was quite nearly overwhelmed with emotion at the thought alone. Oh, it would be nice to let his analyst know about this at their next session!

Before long, their waiter was back and asking if they’d like more to drink. Eddie peered over the menu again while Richie ordered something called a Julep and Eddie panicked and settled on a Raspberry Collins. Raspberries were healthy, right? 

“I already know you’re going to hate mine, but you can try it if you want to. Mint Juleps are really popular in the south.”

“It’ll be an adventure then,” Eddie said, trying to find a better quip in hopes it’d prove his worth. Quick wit had never been his strong suit.

As Richie had predicted, the Julep was not to Eddie’s liking at all. His second cocktail, the Raspberry Collins, was almost as bad—though a little more sweet and manageable. It certainly didn’t taste like mint and pine cones. 

Eddie was nearly finished with the cocktail by the time he realized he’d been prattling on about his awful experience at the last bar he’d gone to—where he’d spilled his virgin daiquiri all over himself and had to leave. He vaguely remembered telling Richie the story once before, or an edited version of it, but the man still just smiled and nodded along as he listened.

Eddie’s chest continued to pool with warmth as the waiter came around again and he asked, confidently this time, for something called a New York Sour.

“You sure about that? Those can be pretty strong,” Richie said, still leaning back in his seat—looking like he belonged there, like he’d always existed in this moment. He looked like a painting, or a photograph for a magazine—if models in magazines wore thick-framed glasses and cheesy grins. His eyes though… Oh, Eddie could get lost in them if he let himself. This low lighting really did something to make his blue eyes seem so dark and mysterious. 

“It can’t be any worse than that Tulip you gave me,” Eddie said.

“Tulip? You mean Julep?”

“Yes, that’s what I said. Julep,” Eddie stated, hoping his face didn’t go red despite how hot his face felt. He felt a little off balance as he glanced around the room to be sure no one else had noticed his blunder. 

“I think this oughtta be your last one for the night. Mrs. K is going to have an aneurysm if she finds out her precious little boy is driving drunk.” Richie leaned forward with his elbows on the table as he said it, looking a tad too much like the cat that had caught the canary. 

“Well, I should just call one of my drivers then and have _him_ drive the car,” Eddie said, matter-of-factly. He wasn’t so sure whether it was the idea of calling one of his employees to drive his car for him or the way he’d said it, but the comment had Richie chuckling in his infectious way.

“Maybe you should just do that then,” Richie said.

“Maybe I will,” Eddie stated, keeping his tone just the same as he took out his cell phone. Boy was this low light wreaking havoc on his vision. He adjusted his glasses but to no avail. The text on his screen remained blurry as he texted the only name he recognized on the list. 

Joey. Joey would have no issues picking up the car.

When the response to his text, about fifteen minutes later, was a message asking why he needed the car picked up and where he was, Eddie stared at the screen as Richie laughed over something Eddie hadn’t caught.

_Joey: Is there a reason you can’t make it back to the lot? Where are you in the city?_

To this, Eddie replied, _I have gone for drinks as you always said I should. Perhaps one too many. But I don’t need a ride. I’ll call a cab home. Better to not get a ticket._ Or at least he tried. There seemed to be a few too many typos in the message and that might’ve just given him away.

_I GAVE Gine for drinks as you always zaud I should. P ethaps one tew maby. But I din’t need a ride. I’ll call a cvb hkme. Bett et to nt getb ticket._

_Joey: A few tew many? Out with a client?_

Not sure what it really mattered at this point, and proud to say he wasn’t at a bar drinking alone, Eddie replied with a solid. 

_YES! As mtter offact._

_Joey: And at which bar are you drinking with our client? Better I should drive you home WITH the car than leave you to get abducted by Mr. Tozier._

How in the world had he guessed!? Oh, Eddie imagined he probably had the driver’s report.

“Oh, yes, another of these,” Eddie said, almost missing their waiter as he came by to clear the empty glasses.

“Another? Eds—”

“Yes, please,” Eddie said, not sure why Richie had started to contradict him. Oh, he was probably being rude having been on his phone so long making arrangements for the car. “Just one more, I think. And some water.” His tongue didn’t quite cooperate like he expected, but instead of being mortified, all Eddie could do was laugh.

_Joey: I’m at the address… You realize I DO need the key from you Eddie._

Oh… What a bother he was!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fret not, we shall see what's actually going on with Drunk!Eddie from a sober POV, aka poor Richie who didn't realize his date was going to turn into a lush. You know what they say about the children of helicopter parents! Thank you so much for reading and I hope you're enjoying the ride as much as Richie!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for why this chapter took...six months. No excuse. I am sorry. Have some shenanigans. I am sorry.

Richie’s pleasure had been slowly being overcome with dread as the minutes ticked by. Really for the last half hour or so. Eddie was so drunk and so, so naively unaware of it. He’d gone so far as to order himself another cocktail, mindless of the fact his words were slurring and he was waving back and forth the slightest bit in his seat.

It became Richie’s mission to down the cocktail the second it hit the table, just to stop Eddie from having it. If he drank any more, he was probably going to puke his guts up if he wasn’t about to already. It didn’t help matters either that Eddie had texted someone to come pick up his car. Joey, Richie bet. Joey who hated his guts and would probably stomp his face into the pavement the minute he saw how inebriated his boss was.

“Maybe you should take it easy, Eds. You’re about to spill out of your chair—”

“Then I guess you’ll be carrying me home then, won’t you?” Eddie asked before laughing so hard at his own little joke that everyone in the restaurant was giving them major side-eye. His face was so bright red, and his eyes were glittering. He looked absolutely overjoyed, and if it weren’t for the terror coursing through him with every beat of his heart, Richie would’ve fallen for the blond man just the smallest bit harder.

That affection, though, was undermined by the sound of chair legs scraping before the wooden seat was unceremoniously dropped into place at the side of their table—and Joey was sitting down alongside them.

“Having _fun,_ Mr. Tozier?” He asked, voice full of venom while his lips were curled in a very unfriendly smile. 

“Oh! Joey, you _did_ make it!” Eddie said, setting down the cell phone he’d been trying to type into for the last few minutes.

“Hi, Eddie. Are you about finished here? Your mother’s worried sick.” 

“But I have one more drink coming!” Eddie said, flopping around in his seat because he was trying to cross his legs and too uncoordinated to do it.

“Joey, please, do us a favor and chug that drink before he sees it,” Richie said, eyeing their waitress who was coming back with three waters and the damned cocktail.

“How about _you_ do us a favor and take it with you back to the hole you crawled out of,” Joey hissed. “You know, only a real asshole would get him liquored up like this and take advantage of him.”

“Take advantage? Dude, he said he _wanted—”_

“I’ll not have it!” Eddie proclaimed, picking up a little late that their conversation wasn’t friendly. 

Their poor waitress, thinking he meant the cocktail she’d been about to set down, drew back a bit and Richie let himself hope that she would scurry away—or spill it. Splash it in his face or Eddie’s face... Or _anything._

“Oh, that wasn’t—that wasn’t towards you, dear. So sorry. I’ll have that. Thank you. My apologies.” Eddie was grinning again as the waitress politely forgave him and set down the drinks along with their check. Richie had never been so happy to get the boot from a bar in all his life. 

“Eddie, don’t you dare. You’ve had enough. Remember what happened last time? You spilled all over yourself like a fool—” Joey reached for the glass which Eddie already had in his hands and the blond man jerked away from him.

“You see, that’s just it, Joey! That’s just the thing! Every time I go out with you and the other drivers, all you do is _make fun_ of me. You just make fun! All night! And when I did spill that drink, you didn’t offer to help me—you didn’t come over to me. You just...you just _turned_ away!”

“Eds, can I try that? Hey, can I try your drink? It looks really good. Just a sip?” 

Richie let them argue while he carefully pulled the glass out of Eddie’s hand and downed it as quickly as he could. It tasted like burning sugar and left him feeling like he needed to vomit, but he choked it down. He was _definitely_ taking a cab to the hotel.

“Oh, no why did you do that?” Eddie asked, looking at the glass in Richie’s hand. He looked so betrayed it was almost comical, except Richie was afraid if he laughed, he’d barf. 

“Sorry. It was really good. So good. Did you say Joey, here, was taking me back to the hotel?” Richie asked. He passed Joey a look, wishing the man could read his mind—because as much as Richie really fucking hated this guy, he knew Joey was his only option in getting Eddie home unscathed. His plan was to trick Eddie into the car without him and have Joey handle the rest. 

Joey, however, was not smooth enough to pick up on that plan (or Richie was just too drunk to convey it properly) and instead settled for calling Richie out for getting his boss wasted—as if Eddie were some little kid that Richie had led astray. 

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m taking _you_ anywhere. Consider our contract with you _voided,_ Mr. Tozier.”

“You can’t do that! _He_ can’t do that!” Eddie exclaimed. “I-I own the company! I’m the boss here, and I am telling you to take the car back to the lot and be on your way!”

“Eds, calm down,” Richie said, earning himself a pouty look from the other man. “I think I need to get going. But I will call you in the morning. Okay?”

“Going? But… Wait, going where?” Like his whole little world just came crashing down. It’d be cute if Richie weren’t scared for his life. Mafioso in the seat next to him looked like he was packing heat under his suit jacket and Richie had a bad feeling if he so much as thought about getting in one of their company cars, he was going to end up executed in a ditch somewhere—or maybe underneath a bridge.

“Back to his hotel, Eddie. Now, let me have the keys. I want to get the car back to the lot for you. Sound good?” Joey asked. He held out his hand and Eddie fished around in his pockets, looking frustrated and sad as he slapped the key ring into Joey’s waiting palm. “Now, how about you and me take a pit stop in the men’s room? You look like you need to _go.”_

As utterly disturbing as it was to see Joey talking to Eddie like he was a little kid, the look he passed Richie was enough of a warning shot for Richie to get the picture. Joey would help Eddie to the bathroom and Richie was to skedaddle while they were gone. If luck would have it, Eddie would forget Richie was even supposed to be there by the time he finished in the men’s room and would be halfway home before even remembered they’d been out together.

Richie really fucked this whole thing up…

_Sorry, Space Turtle,_ he thought. _You bent time and space for me and I still fucked it up..._

“Joey, go on home,” Eddie said, pushing the man’s arm away from his shoulders. “I don’t—I don’t want to go with you. I was having fun. I want to—I want to keep having fun.”

“And what do I tell your mother, Eddie, when she calls me another six hundred times? Sorry, Mrs. Kaspbrak, your son is out ‘having fun’ with another man?”

“It’s none of her business, now is it? Now, you go on home. Just take the car. Just—Just do what I pay you for, huh? Do what I pay you to do. Get out of here.”

“Jesus, Eddie! I’m trying to _help_ you. Don’t you get that? I’m trying to keep your mom off your back. I’m trying to keep you from getting taken advantage of here!”

“You should go with him, Eddie. I had a lot of fun, but I don’t want you gettin’ in trouble with Mrs. K.” Richie tried to smile for him, but Eddie just looked unhappy and determined. 

“I’m old enough that I don’t _have_ to worry about getting in trouble with my _mother._ Now, I should like to keep...keep having a good time.” He had to pause to swallow hard—either a belch or a full drink rising up his throat that he was desperate to keep down. “And if you don’t want to have a good time with me, then I will just go find someone who will.”

“Eddie—Eddie, where are you going?” Richie asked as Eddie started to get to his feet, wobbling a little bit as he made to step away from the table.

“The restroom! Not that it’s any concern of yours.” 

“Good God, did you pour a keg down his throat?” Joey snapped, leaving Eddie to shamble off to the bathroom by himself. 

“He did that to himself. He’s only had three!”

“Eddie doesn’t _drink,”_ Joey snapped. 

“Look, I want him to go with you. I’m trying to get him to go with you. I didn’t know he was this bad at holding his liquor—and for the record, he’s the one who suggested we get drinks! He _wanted_ to drink. Let the man live a little, but for God’s sake, just get him home.”

“You know what...” Joey was sneering at him now, and standing from his pilfered seat at the table. “I don’t think I will. All the shit I put up with for him and this is how he repays me? Chooses some lowlife over his best friend? Over the guy who’s _bailed him out of everything?”_

“He didn’t choose me—he’s drunk! C’mon, man… He’s just drunk. He’s probably blacked out in there,” Richie said, inclining his head toward the bathroom.

It was just like an asshole mafioso to take Richie’s plead for help and throw it back in his face. 

“Yeah? Well that sounds like your mess, doesn’t it, Mr. Hotshot? If he wants to go get drunk like one of the big boys, he can take the consequences like one, too. And one more thing, _Mr. Tozier,”_ Joey leaned down to growl his name in Richie’s ear, his intimidation tactic bordering on a bad 80s cop movie, but then again... “If I find out you’ve taken advantage of him, you won’t need to be worrying about the next leg of your tour. You won’t have one left to stand on.”

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” Richie said, shaking his head and focusing on the check the waitress had brought them. He signed it, added a generous tip, and by the time he was done, Joey was gone with the keys to Eddie’s car.

All it took was Richie saying he needed Joey’s help for the man to back out on them… Some friend, Richie thought. If he was truly that worried about Eddie getting _assaulted,_ why the hell would he leave him behind? No matter how unruly he’d gotten, he didn’t deserve to get…

Jesus. Richie couldn’t bear the thought. Eddie was so fucking innocent and proper. Getting screwed over by some sleaze ball would probably horrify him into (another) early grave. Richie slapped the pen down on the table and got up from his seat, hurrying to bathroom where he found Eddie talking to some other guy—which only made Richie feel infinitely worse. _This was what Joey had been so worried about!_

“Hey, Eds, you ready to get going?” Richie asked, butting in mid-conversation. The man Eddie had been talking to, and older gentleman with a white mustache looked annoyed—but not in the ‘hey, buddy, get your own date’ kind of way. 

“Yeah, just a minute, Mr. Tozier. I was telling this guy about how I used to drive for Pacino!” 

“Yeah? That’s great! But, we’ve gotta go. Okay?”

“Well… Well, yeah okay. Okay. It was nice talking to you,” Eddie said, looking like he wanted to reach out and shake this man’s hand. It was only as Richie was pulling him by his wrist out of the bathroom that he realized the man was holding one of Eddie’s business cards.

“Doing a little business in the crapper, Eds?”

“Huh? Oh! He said he recognized me. I think I drove his boss once… That’s what I think it was.”

“Uh-huh,” Richie said, guiding Eddie outside to the street. The city air had turned cold, but Eddie was so far gone he didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t smell like vomit, either, so Richie remained worried that the alcohol he’d chugged was going to end up splattered over whatever unfortunate Uber picked them up. “Say, Eds, what’s your address?” Richie asked.

“Hm? Well, I used to live in Main. But now I’m...now I’m here in the city. It’s been really nice. I bought Mom a...a really nice little house. It’s really nice for the city. Well, outside the city. It’s outside the city with a little land.”

“Yeah? What street is it on?” Richie asked, blinking hard against the dizziness that made him want to sink down to the ground. That last drink was finally getting to him.

“Hmm?” A long, sleepy mumble before Eddie’s arms were around Richie’s shoulders in a tight, friendly hug—like Richie were a good friend who had just gotten back from a ten month voyage overseas. All Richie could do was chuckle and pat him on the back. It would be a lie to say the touch didn’t make the butterflies swell up in his stomach. Or maybe that was still just the rush of the alcohol in his blood.

“Eddie, what street do you live on? I wanna getcha home.”

“I thought… I thought we were having fun? Aren’t we… Aren’t we having fun?”

“Yes! But you have work in the morning. Right?”

“Oh… Yes, I have to drive... _you.”_ At that he let out a giddy, boisterous laugh—his composure finally gone with the wind. “I have to drive _you_ in the morning. Oh, wouldn’t it just be better if we were at the same place already? It’s so late.”

“Are you coming on to me, Eddie Kaspbrak?” Richie asked, feeling a painful twist in his heart as he said it. Yeah, this was Eddie Kaspbrak and he really liked him a whole awful lot, but he wasn’t...Eddie.

How he wished he could’ve said those words to _his_ Eddie Kaspbrak, even if they’d be met with a scoff.

“I just… I’ve never _gone out_ with anyone. I...I like it,” Eddie said, smiling at him. He looked coherent—like himself—for a moment, then faded back out into drunken giddiness. “I like you.”

“If you like me...you should let me take you home. So tell me...where do you live?” Richie said it with a smile, his hand coming up to cradle Eddie’s cheek. He got to watch those woozy brown eyes fill with such bright, false hope.

It worked though, and Eddie gave him an address that Richie was able to punch into his phone to call them an Uber. The entire ride, Eddie was wobbling around in his seat, babbling about the route they were taking—trying to make small talk with the driver who clearly wanted nothing to do with him while Richie apologized and kept reiterating to the woman that Eddie was harmless. 

The ride was long, and after a while Richie found that slinging his arm over Eddie’s shoulders got the other man to calm down and quit commenting on the route their driver was taking. The man, instead, cuddled into Richie’s side—the warmth from his body somehow chipping away at the cold and the tension Richie hadn’t realized he’d been carrying for so long. Eddie’s blond curls were so soft and plush against his cheek, scented like coconut even through the cloud of booze that clung to him. 

Richie found himself letting his eyes slip closed as he rested there, his cheek rested against the top of Eddie’s head while the other man prattled on about old customers he’d driven—movie stars and models, all the best kinds. Their Uber driver got excited when he mentioned driving Madonna and Richie held Eddie a little closer as the man went on and on about the discussion they’d had as he’d driven her and a gentleman, what she was in town for and where she was going. Luckily the arena had changed names so many times the driver never realized how long ago that drive actually was… 

Jesus… Was Madonna in that world even the same Madonna as in this one? 

Richie’s eyes snapped open as the thought coursed through his head. Was John Lennon still alive where Eddie came from? 

Finally, their car pulled into a long driveway leading up to a beautiful, two-story white house with practically every bulb burning. Richie was peering at it out the tinted windows as the front door flew open and a tiny woman, a tiny _scrawny_ woman, burst out onto the porch.

“Oh, dear… That’s Mother. How… How embarrassing,” Eddie said, squirming to sit upright. 

Mrs. K was a hell of a lot different in Eddie’s world than Richie’s, that was for damned sure. The car had just barely come to a stop before the woman started calling Eddie’s name, her shrill voice giving Richie a splitting headache right off the rip. 

“Whelp, this is your stop, Eds,” Richie said. While Eddie was still complaining, Richie leaned forward to ask the driver if he could book another trip with her back to the city. 

“Sure, man. I have to head that way anyways,” she said, shrugging indifferently though her eyes looked pained from the screeching of Mrs. K. Richie thanked her, and then tipped her generously in the app before requesting another ride. He was still waiting for her to accept as he had to open the door and basically force Eddie to step out.

“Eddie Kaspbrak! You had me worried sick!” The old woman on the porch shrieked, coming down to the last wooden step and going no further, as though the gravel would disintegrate her house slippers.

“Ah, cool it, Ma. I was just out with friends!”

“Out with friends? Oh, I see how it is!” She was giving Richie some major stink eye, already poised to chase him off. 

“Yes, Ma. Anyway—Anyway, this is Mr. Tozier. And he has brought me home.”

“Thanks for the intro, Eds,” Richie said, having to grab Eddie by the sleeve of his suit to keep him from swaying over off his feet. “I’m gonna get going, okay?”

“What? But I thought you were coming inside?” He looked so hurt and betrayed, despite how his mother was screeching that that was simply unacceptable and that she’d call the police if Richie _dared_ come into her house.

“But if I come in, how are you going to pick me up at the hotel tomorrow?” 

Eddie continued staring at him, looking betrayed, until Richie guided him closer to the porch and Mrs. K. God, she was so different from what Richie imagined and remembered—but he could see where Eddie got his huge eyes from. The woman looked damned near crazy, and she grabbed for Eddie’s arm as soon as he was within reach like a lioness about to drag an antelope back into her cave. 

Which, honestly, was kind of what it looked like as Richie waved goodbye and Eddie was swallowed up by the house—looking like a deer in headlights, so alarmed and confused. 

“He looks a little old to still be living with his momma,” the driver said, looking at Richie through the rear view mirror. “Didn’t he say he drove Madonna?”

“Yeah… She’s, uh, got dementia. He’s gotta stay with her. Sometimes he has to pretend it’s still, like, 1980 and he’s still her little boy.”

“Pretend?” She asked, before huffing and pulling off down the drive. 

Yeah, she had a point. It was a bit funny and a bit sad seeing him get jerked around by his mom. This Eddie seemed to stand up to her a little more, snapping out his ‘cool it, Ma!’ The Eddie Richie knew would’ve sooner burst into flames than snap at his mother that way—but probably because she could just sit on him and literally smother him if she chose. This Eddie was lanky and scrawny, but he could probably still take his twig of a mother in a fight. 

His ride back to the city was mostly quiet and it wasn’t until he was ten minutes or so from his hotel that Eddie started to text him apologizing for his mother being ‘a bit much.’ She worried, Eddie explained. She worried and could be a bit much, but she was harmless. Richie reassured him that it was fine and he would see him in the morning, no hard feelings. 

Soon, he was back in his hotel room and showered and laid out on his bed, naked and exhausted. He seriously regretted letting Eddie get so blitzed, even if it was the other man’s idea to get drinks. He’d opened up there for a while before he got trashed and Richie tried to focus on that instead. Focus on the positives, he told himself.

The Turtle had sent Eddie to him, Richie was sure of that now. And Eddie was as interested in him as Richie was in Eddie...even if this wasn’t the same person he yearned for so deeply. In the back of his mind, the words kept ringing out.

Yeah, he’s Eddie Kaspbrak, but he’s _not._ He was _nothing_ like Eddie...and yet he was still so charming and fun and cute. He’s not Eddie...but he’s close. He’s as close as Richie was ever, _ever_ going to get. 

Richie tossed and turned, clicking on his phone to check for messages. There was nothing and the hours were slipping past faster and faster as his head spun. 

It felt like a betrayal falling for this other man… It felt like an insult to _his_ Eddie. Even if that Eddie was dead and gone...buried under rubble and trash, somewhere underneath that cursed town.

Around four in the morning, Richie came to the conclusion that he wouldn’t be feeling this way if Blond Eddie were a different man. If he were just a random guy, a random driver, with all the same traits and quirks, Richie wouldn’t be feeling this much guilt. Yeah, his name was the same, but they weren’t anything alike. 

If it weren’t for Richie being so...so hung up on his Eddie, Blond Eddie would still be dead, he told himself. The Turtle brought him back to life, brought him across who knew how many different dimensions to plop him at Richie’s feet like a gift. 

What he desired, couldn’t come to pass… Wasn’t that what the Turtle said? The Eddie he knew would never have felt the same, would never have loved him back… But this one could. This one _did._ He was naive and timid and the polar opposite of the Eddie that Richie knew, but he was...perfect. 

Feeling guilty would get him nowhere, but taking a chance on this other guy...it could be amazing. It could be everything he’d ever hoped and dreamed for. 

If Eddie, his Eddie, had lived, he would’ve gone back to New York and back to his wife who treated him the same way his mother had and he’d live out his days under her thumb until he stressed himself into a heart attack or died young of cancer like his father, just to get away from her. Eddie never would’ve associated with them again. His wife wouldn’t have let him. If Eddie had lived, Richie’s life would be just as empty. 

Richie told himself this again and again until his mind finally, mercifully, let him sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :)


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